


Wednesday

by TaraLaurel1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, Bromance, Drugged John, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt John, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, Soldier John Watson, tsot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 13:18:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 20,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraLaurel1/pseuds/TaraLaurel1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I've given him chemicals and compounds that way, he's never even noticed. Missed a whole Wednesday once, didn't have a clue." Sherlock uses his flatmate for a little experiment. But something goes wrong, dangerously so. John may not have had a clue, but it is a day Sherlock will certainly never be able to delete. Set sometime between THoB and TRF.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Final Test

**Author's Note:**

> TITLE: Wednesday
> 
> CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter One/ The Final Test
> 
> RATING: T (language, content)
> 
> A/N: Ever since first hearing this line uttered I immediately KNEW there could be a treasure of fanfics behind that one sentence! I have had numerous ideas floating around my brain as to where to take this! Who knows? Maybe I will do different versions. This is the first one at least.
> 
> Please read and review, many thanks.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.

Sherlock's fingers fumbled through his hair, scratching at his scalp and ruefully ruffling the locks. His eyes never left the small beaker in front of him as all the facts of the case went swimming through his skull.

_Five victims._

_No connecting factors. Strangers. Random?_

_No._

_Too precise. Too planned._

_Stick to the facts. What do we know?_

_Five victims._

_All experienced significant lapses in memory conveniently during the death of a loved one. So, technically, ten victims._

But it was the five living ones that mattered to Sherlock. There was nothing to be found from the bodies or the murders. It wasn't about the people who were killed. It was about their killers. The real victims.

_Not just victims. Suspects._

_The police suspect them anyway. Idiots. All their heart rates, facial expressions and word patterns indicate innocence. Yet all the physical, tangible, evidence, nail them to the wall._

_Different murders._

_One stabbing. Two shootings. One asphyxiation. One poisoning._

_Poison. Drugs. Drugged._

_The suspects/victims had been drugged. Obvious. Predictable. Boring._

But what wasn't boring was how the substance left no trace of itself in the infected person's system.

_Still bit dull. Seen similar cases before._

Sherlock had been listing off and examining all known, and some unknown, chemical compounds that could elicit such desired effects.

_Simple. Child's play._

The sole reason he had taken such a mundane case was due to the fact that there had been practically no intriguing illegal activity for weeks. He had taken to organizing John's clothing and books the previous day while his flatmate had been at work. The man hadn't been particularly pleased at that, but supposed it was preferred over more bullet holes in the wall.

But now that Sherlock was on the case, it was actually becoming a bit tricky. Every single victim had the same time lapse. 18 hours. Exactly.

_Interesting._

There usually would be at least some degree of difference depending on individual's previous narcotic usage, food and beverage consumption, height, weight and other varying factors. Somehow someone had studied these victims and perfected the proper substance solution for each of them.

_Clever._

But useless if he couldn't prove it.

If the pattern held, three more people would be dead by the end of the week alone, leaving three more innocent individuals to be framed.

His client currently was the brother of one of the convicted supposed killers. The man was from Kent. He had heard a similar story on the news of a woman accused of shooting her husband in Luton, but claiming to recall nothing.

Upon Sherlock's further investigating, he had found three others with matching alibis. His client's case and the husband's death in Luton were the closest in location. All of the incidents were spread far apart enough that the police had yet to make the connection.

_Typical._

And, of course, it was only five he had found so far. Who knew how far this killer had travelled, or how far back? Sherlock approximated the murderer had already done away with at least twelve people, therefore also effectively ending the lives of the twelve suspected loved ones.

He could conduct a more thorough span of his research later. The people alive could certainly wait to be vindicated. Time was of the essence if he was to stop the next murder.

He had been awake all night constructing this specific compound. The tests were all conclusive. Well, all but one.

Sherlock glanced up at the sound of his flatmate's shuffling feet. A groggy and groaning John Watson greeted him in the doorway, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"More nightmares?"

The words had slipped from Sherlock's lips before he could censor himself. John's quick glare silenced the sleuth. Sherlock never asked about John's dreams – or the screams – and John never brought the topic up. There were several certain things the flatmates just simply did not discuss. John's night terrors. Afghanistan. Sherlock's history with drugs. The Woman.

"Any tea?"

Sherlock nodded at the kettle across the kitchen wordlessly.

"Ah, ta."

If the good doctor hadn't still been one foot through slumber's door, he might have noticed the way Sherlock's sharp gaze followed him as he moved, poured and sipped.

John had hardly set the cup down when Sherlock stood readily.

"What the –"

The blogger didn't have time to finish as his legs turned to melted butter. The detective was already beside him, coiling John's arm around his own and half leading, half dragging, the doctor to the couch.

John flopped onto the piece of furniture face down. Something Sherlock regarded as probably "Not Good". Turning the mumbling man over, Sherlock started the stop watch on his mobile. He was clicking 'start' just as John's lids slid heavily closed.

_At least now he can get some sleep._


	2. Under Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TITLE: Wednesday
> 
> CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Two/ Under Control
> 
> RATING: T (language, content)
> 
> A/N: Part 2 of my first "Wednesday" chronicles. Keep in mind that I am no scientist, psychologist, anything worth mentioning. So yeah. Not everything in this might be 100% accurate, but I hope that doesn't hinder you from reading and enjoying. It is fiction after all!
> 
> Please read and review, many thanks.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.
> 
> Chapter Two: Under Control

It wasn't until Sherlock was three hours, forty two minutes, and twenty seven seconds into his experiment that he realize he may have, possibly, made a, sort of –

Error.

Everything thus far had been flawless.

Sherlock had phoned – Kayla, Kyla, Kyle, Kelly, Kylie – whatever her name – John's new girlfriend –  _Commitment issues. Mother in hospital. Will be likely moving out of the city to care of her. No point in pursuing relationship_ – and told her that John would not be making his lunch date today as his flatmate was helping on a case. If he said John was ill, the woman – _Nurturer. Caregiver. Will be good mother one day once she gets over the hurdle of those commitment problems her last ex obviously caused._ – would be likely to come around to play nurse, bringing soup and herself over to the flat and ruining his research. He left the case vague and the woman didn't question the detective. People only grew suspicious if you provided details. And  _what's-her-name_ wasn't exactly fond of Sherlock anyway and he knew she would be keen to end the conversation with him.

He had kept Mrs. Hudson out of the flat under the warning that her presence would contaminate a lifesaving experiment.  _Not a lie._

And then Sherlock had sat himself down, observing his slumbering blogger and taking notes of each mutter, moan, finger twitch and snore.

His focus was on his pen and paper when it happened.

When he heard it.

The scream.

John's scream.

He had heard that strangled shout so many times in the night now he had grown accustom to it. On the first occasion, Sherlock had sprang upstairs and burst into the man's room, ready to attack his flatmate's assumed assailant. Instead, he had found John Watson very much alone, and very much in the throes of some terrible and torturing dream. Sweat shined above his bent brow, his knuckles whitening against the soldier's grip on his sheets. That was all though. He didn't thrash about save a few turns of the head. And it was only ever one single shout. An involuntarily uttered expression of absolute agony.

Sherlock always had the distinct feeling Captain John Watson did not cry out like that when awake or of his own volition. The army doctor was calm and brave in the face of terror and tragedy. Only severe physical pain could produce such a sickening sound.

Sherlock had long since timed these episodes. John's bed would creak and it would begin. There would be a few muffled murmurings, a bit more creaking. And finally, the scream. It never took John more than 30 seconds after the cry to rouse from the unpleasant slumber. Sherlock would hear the bed and then the floorboards moan. John would pace for five to seven minutes, and then sometimes go on his laptop. Sometimes he would lay wide away, silently still, until at least 90 minutes later, by Sherlock's calculations and eavesdropping for snoring, sleep would take him in once more. Never, though, did he leave that room. Not for the toilet. Not for tea.

_And John is always one to have a cuppa to calm down._

But that would require abandoning his place of privacy. Of course Sherlock could hear him. He wasn't an idiot. But he still didn't desire for the detective to see the strong soldier in such a suffering state.

Sherlock could see it now, though.

He almost instinctively started counting to 30 for John to wake when he remembered.

John couldn't wake.

Sherlock tensed. He hadn't thought of this. Hadn't planned for this.  _Him_. The genius. The scientist. The friend. Hadn't thought of  _this._

He could only hope that the nightmare would pass peacefully on its own. Otherwise – well, he honestly didn't know what.

This wasn't exactly his area.

But this was John.

He knew absolutely everything there was to know about the man. Well, everything observable. His military career. His shoulder. His old limp and tremor. Medical degree. Basic childhood facts. Favorite tea. Preferred alcohol. Favorite jumpers. Most beloved book. Brand of hair and body care products. Aftershave. Deodorant. The sound of his footsteps. His scent. Eye color. Dental history. Haircut.

None of this helped him now.

One minute, twenty two seconds later, and the dreadful dream hadn't passed.

John was past peaky now. His face was hauntingly ghost-like. Ashen and sweat covered.

No. Not sweat.

 _Tears_.

John Watson was crying.

The sight was definitely something new and strange for the detective. He ever could have imagined the man he knew turning to tears. Now that he saw it, Sherlock knew it was something he never wished to witness again. It cut him somewhere underneath his chest where he absentmindedly noted where his heart would be.

_Impossible._

Sherlock didn't have time to question the supposed sentiment as John was suddenly screaming again. Profound, piercing, soul shattering shouts that shook even Sherlock. They seemed to form somewhere deep within John's gut, carving him out completely, until they clawed out his throat.

There was no sheet for John to sink his fingers into and it wasn't until Sherlock saw the blood that he realized what John was doing.

Hesitating, Sherlock staggered to stand. Casting a conflicted confused and concerned glance at his flatmate, he dashed out of the room, returning almost immediately with the blanket from his own bed.

He spread it over the writhing body, carefully and cautiously wrenching open John's fists.

John's fingers instantly snapped back around the edges of the blanket before releasing a mangled moan.

John may have never thrashed about before, but he certainly was doing so now. His limbs twisted as his head rolled and whipped from side to side. Sherlock twice had to catch the tossing and turning man before he plummeted right off the couch and onto the floor.

The detective sat hunched forward on the coffee table, hands hovering over the struggling body. He was stopping his flatmate from hurting himself, but beyond that, he was helpless. The drug was doing its job alright. It had trapped John in whatever Hell he was reliving. For Sherlock to attempt an antidote it would require removing his focus from his friend. He knew he couldn't restrain the man as that would only exacerbate things. Even if Sherlock could manage to haul him into bed, there was no guarantee he wouldn't roll off that too. And that was an even farther fall. Not to mention the 52 other possibly ways Sherlock had quickly tabulating that John could cause himself harm.

He checked his timer. Surely the dream couldn't last the remaining 14 hours and five minutes. Certainly not. Nightmares generally only lasted several minutes. They were brief and only occurred during REM sleep. Of course, beyond inducing slumber and slight memory loss, Sherlock hadn't thoroughly researched what the substance did to the subject, or said subject's subconscious, during the sleep.

He shuddered at the sudden memory of Baskerville.

John would not be experiencing any such terror inducing effects.  _Would he? No._ None of the chemical ingredients could do such a thing. It was only for the specific hours of sleep. That's all.  _Right?_

Sherlock knew astoundingly little when it came to dreams or anything of the like. He considered dream interpretation to be a laughable concept and didn't care much for sleep itself to study it. He had briefly researched nightmares after John's first one in their flat. That had been focused on causes and treatment. The psychology behind the dreams and how to handle someone in the depths of one. This was above anything he had read.

But when John started choking on his own air and fear, Sherlock knew he had to do something.

Anything.

"John! John, listen to me. Listen to my voice. John, you're safe. You are at the flat. Baker Street. Wherever you think you are, whatever you are seeing, it is not real, John. There is no danger. You are safe. I am here. You're safe. Stop this nonsense. It is only your mind. An illusion, John! You can control it. Don't let it control you."

John continued to cringe and cry out despite Sherlock's words, although he was finally breathing again.

"You are a soldier, John. Not act like it. Pull yourself together. See reason. You are dreaming. It is an illusion. A memory. Fabricated by your subconscious. Nothing more. Now, stop this."

But John didn't stop and Sherlock sprang to his feet in frustration.

Gently prodding John with his fingers didn't work either. He stepped backwards and reached out his arm, lightly slapping his friend on the face. As soon as he did so, he readied himself for some visceral, soldier trained, reaction. But the man still didn't wake.

Whirling around, Sherlock saw their door burst open.

"What is going on up here, Sherlock? I could hear John outside when I was putting away the rubbish! I nearly called the police."

"It's nothing, Mrs. Hudson. Everything is under control," Sherlock spat.

"'Under control'? Sherlock, look at the poor dear. What did you do to him?"

"Tea, Mrs. Hudson,  _now._ "

"What?"

"Tea," Sherlock snapped. "But do avoid what's already been made unless you want a very long nap."

"So that's what you did," Mrs. Hudson lifted a finger and nodded to herself.

"I admit nothing," Sherlock scoffed.

"You better believe I'm telling John when he comes to, young man," Mrs. Hudson warned as she scurried into the kitchen, and then popping her head back out. "He will wake up, won't he?"

"Of course," Sherlock waved his hand airily, but his focus was still steadfast on John.

When Mrs. Hudson approached him with the cup of tea, Sherlock snatched it from her hands and hastily ushered her out the door.

"Sherlock! What –"

"Thank you. Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson."

"But John –"

"Will be perfectly fine, yes, thank you."

The door had barely finished slamming when Sherlock hurried back to his blogger's side. Sipping the tea, Sherlock then placed it just under John's nose.

"Tea, John. You always force me to drink this when I am ill and others seem to somehow find it particularly soothing when they are upset, as you do too. See? Nice, calming, relaxing, tea."

When John only swallowed a choking breath in response, Sherlock set the drink aside, resisting the urge to throw it against the wall.

"See? I told you. Its medicinal purposes are useless. Now you can't make me drink it."

Sherlock frowned.

John would've smirked or scoffed or smiled at that depending on his mood. Instead, he simply shuddered.

"You are interfering with a very important experiment, John. This is getting ridiculous. You are going to compromise the data and possibly prevent me from proving my solution to this case." Sherlock paused. "There are lives at stake, John," he echoed his friends' past words. "Actual, human lives. Do you care about that at all?"

Sherlock huffed.

John always cared about people. Always. The man put everyone else above himself, no matter what. If anything should have provoked a response, it was that.

John's face contorted and Sherlock internally winced.

_Relax. Relax. Relax. Relax. Relax!_

_What do I do to relax? To calm myself?_

_No. Not_ that.  _Definitely not that._

_Smoking._

_Yes, because John is in a perfect position for that, idiot._ Sherlock berated himself.

He had tried what other people use as soothers. Blanket. Tea.

His eyes swept about the room.

_Ah! Yes! Of course!_

Sherlock sprang up and practically skipped over to his violin.

Playing always helped Sherlock think and music had been proven to have comforting effects.

Eyes fixed on John, Sherlock began a Russian lullaby. The trembling man tightened and tensed, and then deflated delicately into the cushions, like a leaf falling from a tree. His fists were still curled, his face never flattening. It was helping, but not enough.

Sherlock store the information away for later usage. Maybe if he played as John was drifting to sleep to begin with it would aid in staving off the nightmares before they could even start. It didn't, however, seem enough to soothe this drug entrapped dream.

After a second soft piece had only little effect on John, Sherlock abandon his instrument. Almost immediately, the doctor began tossing once more.

He hastily ran over the data in his head.

Tea, prodding and other attempts proved fruitless. It was only his voice and violin that had had any calming effect.

_Think!_

_Wait._

_His voice._

_His violin._

Both had somehow reached through John's haze. It wasn't the words he spoke or the pieces of music he chose. It was  _him_. John was comforted, by Sherlock.  _His_ voice.  _His_ violin. His presence. Him.

Sherlock stood stiffly for a solid moment. He was the last person he expected anyone to find comfort or safety in. Especially John Watson. Hadn't John's life been just as dangerous, if not more so, being with Sherlock as it was in Afghanistan? The man had been kidnapped, beaten, strapped to a bomb and nearly killed by simply being in that "safe" presence. John had saved Sherlock just as many times as Sherlock had saved John. It was Sherlock who felt safer in John's company. John, who radiated comfort and kindness and stability and warmth. Sherlock radiated discomfort and cruelty and chaos and coldness.

It couldn't be true.

And yet, the facts were there.

_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbably, must be the truth._

There was one more test. One more thing Sherlock could try to calm the doctor and prove or disprove this obviously ludicrous theory.

The detective darted out of the room and returned with a small speaker system. Plugging his phone into the device, classical music began to sing from the speakers. They were Sherlock's favorites, and ones he played most often.

He watched as John's body slightly settled and Sherlock shifted awkwardly forward. Hesitantly, the man sat back down on the coffee table.

"John?"

He felt utterly foolish but was rewarded with some of the doctor's tension suddenly dissipating.

"John. I know you can hear me. You can always hear me. Even when you pretend to be asleep but I want your help with an experiment. Which, by the way, is quite childish and ruse. But, seeing as this time you are most definitely not feigning sleep – which, partially, maybe, might be somewhat my fault – I will refrain from using cold water as I have in the past. I am going to try something, John. Purely scientific. I do not want you confusing this with sentiment. Anyone who reads your blog knows you do so like to romanticize things. I simply ask that you do not punch me." He paused and tentatively lifted his hand. "You are safe, John. You are with me and you are safe. No one is trying to hurt you. I am not trying to hurt you. I – I am here."

And with those last words, Sherlock slipped his hand over John's curled fist. The action was unsteady and unsure but the moment Sherlock felt John's grip growing, the detective tightened his hold.

"It's me, John. You're safe. It's me."

John's fingers slowly relaxed and stretched, entwining with Sherlock's. The doctor seemed to be clinging to Sherlock just as hard as he had been to the blanket; an anchor in his suffering subconscious. Sherlock simply squeezed back.

Eventually, John's grip slackened. His breathing evened and his features softened. His entire form went limp. Yet Sherlock did not waver in his hold. He kept his fingers firmly around John's and continued to speak softly, yet sternly, to his flatmate.

And he did so until the 18 hours were spent. Sitting there, staring at John, talking to him and holding his hand. Never once letting go. Of course. He could never let John Watson go.


	3. Out of the Cage and Into the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TITLE: Wednesday
> 
> CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Three/ Out of the Cage and Into the Light
> 
> RATING: T (language, content)
> 
> A/N: Originally, that last chapter was the final chapter. People apparently wanted a John POV chapter, some nightmare, some John-wakes-up-and-pummels-Sherlock, and other bits! I started writing the John POV chapter and like Sherlock when making serviettes...this just sort of...happened. Don't worry, John's POV, the awakening, the confrontation, all of it is still to come!
> 
> Please read and review, many thanks.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.

John Watson never knew the full terror that could lurk behind a nightmare until he went to Afghanistan. Yet it was before he started suffering his own that he began to grasp an understanding of this.

After three bullet wounds, a case of metal shrapnel to the neck and two severed limbs from the IED that started the whole day's mess, Private John Watson was ready for a good and long night's rest. All of his patients were alive and stable. A good day.

He was just starting to feel slumber's blanket drift over his heavy eyelids when he heard it.

The scream.

His training slammed to the front of his mind, banishing any dusting of sleep from his brain and bringing him to his feet before his eyes were even entirely open.

He wasn't the only one that had sprung into action as several other soldiers sprinted with him towards the source of the sickening sound. When they found it, each of the them froze.

There was no attacker. No threat.

Just a broken and blubbering grown man.

It was almost a shockingly disturbing sight. A normally stoic and strong soldier, reduced to tremors and tears by seemingly nothing more than the ghosts of his subconscious.

John recognized their crying comrade as the man he had dug a bullet out of his leg earlier that day. He was due to be shipped back home the following morning and had been none too happy about it. He was a good soldier and a great shot. Even after he himself had been wounded, the man still killed at least a dozen insurgents and saved the rest of his team. Since the incident that afternoon he had acted as though it had been a normal day. One would have suspected him to have spent the last twenty four hours calmly reading a book and not nearly falling into his deathbed. Of course, that was until he received word he was being invalided back home.

This wasn't anger that was consuming the soldier now though.

That was the first time John saw what the nightmares could do to a person. But it certainly wasn't the last.

The doctor saw many brave men in his three years in Afghanistan. He was with them when they fought, and when they screamed or cried in the middle of the night. He was there when they killed men without blinking, and there when they cried about it later. He was always there.

When John himself was invalided back to London and suffered through his first subconscious assault, no one was there. No one heard him scream and he didn't have to hide his tears because there was no shame in the four walls of his bedroom seeing him that way. There was no army doctor sitting at his bedside to tell him it would be alright or hold his hand. No one.

And for Captain John Watson, that was okay.

Captain John Watson never wanted anyone to see him without his army armor. Doctor John Watson refused to be the patient.

His soldier's mindset didn't change when he moved into 221B Baker Street. If anything, it strengthened.

Now there was someone there to hear his screams.

Call it pride. Call it stubbornness. John didn't really care what you called it. Sherlock Holmes, self proclaimed sociopath, was not going to see John Watson, soldier, show such weakness.

It had been embarrassing enough at first with his psychosomatic limp and hand tremor. He hadn't desired to give the consulting detective anything else to tack onto the older man's list of frailties.

He had lived his life, pulling himself up by his bootstraps every step of the way, thus far. His parents had been gone. His sister disappeared in the bottle long ago. He had learned how to shoot a gun, fry an egg and tie his shoes, by himself. He studied and struggled to get into medical school and graduate, on his own. He had been shot and was left for dead with his three deceased and one severely wounded comrade. And then he had gotten all of them back to base, alone.

Sure, he had made friends over the years. Good friends too. But none of them ever had been granted access to John's deepest and darkest demons. And he had imagined none of them ever would.

He knew it was coming. It wasn't like he could just turn them off or sense when exactly one would hit. Eventually he was just be struck. The only question about it was when.

And then it happened.

His body betrayed him as a scream leapt from his throat. He always woke just too late to catch it and keep it there. Keeping his eyes closed, he slowly forced himself to uncurl his now throbbing fingers from the sheets and counted his breaths. This was routine.

But something about this time wasn't. This time, someone else was there.

He didn't have to peel back his heavy eyelids to sense Sherlock's presence. A few seconds earlier, and John would have been leaping from the bed and attacking the intruder. Luckily. his flatmate had burst in after the dream's haze had already lifted. He listened as Sherlock stopped in the threshold and could just imagine the detective making his deductions.

Great. Just bloody fantastic. Now he knows.

What was worse was that Sherlock didn't just now know. He had seen.

John wondered if the genius could tell that he was really awake underneath the drawn eyelids and controlled breathing.

And the sweat! I'm shaking and sweating and bleeding Sherlock Holmes is standing right there!

No. Not sweat. Damn it! Tears! When did that start?

How could he continue living with this man after he had seen him crying? He pondered distantly if Sherlock Holmes had ever cried. John had seen the detective feign tears and had sat witness to the man's breakdown in Baskerville, but he couldn't help but seriously wonder if the man had ever properly cried. Why would he? He himself preached time and time again the foolishness and needlessness of sentiment and claimed how he did not experience such emotions.

If John didn't desire for his other friends to see him in such a suffering state, and didn't imagine that they could ever understand, how much more so did that apply to the self proclaimed sociopath?

So John did the only thing he could do. Nothing. He refused to open his eyes. He refused to even recognize Sherlock's presence. And when he heard the soft click of his door coming closed, John Watson silently fell apart.

The flatmates never discussed what happened and Sherlock did not again come upstairs when John shouted out in the middle of the night. They lived on like that, John silently breaking down behind closed doors, and Sherlock silently worrying for his friend.

It wouldn't be until Sherlock's little experiment that the matter was quite forcibly shoved out of the locked bedroom and thrust into the light. But were either of them truly ready for the effects and consequences of taking the beast out of the cage?


	4. Not Okay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TITLE: Wednesday
> 
> CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Four/Not Okay
> 
> RATING: T (language, content)
> 
> A/N: A peak into John's nightmares. His nightmares span a few chapters. Sherlock's POV took only one chapter during the dreams, so the timing may seem off. But it's dreams, time passes different in them. This is turning into so much more than the little oneshot I had originally planned! Hope I don't disappoint!
> 
> Please read and review, many thanks.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.

_John Watson watched the scene in front of him play out, resigned to his fate. He was going to die. They all were._

_And that was okay._

_If riding the world of James Moriarty also meant depriving the world of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, then so be it. Two lives in exchange for the countless that the consulting criminal would have a hand in. John had been a soldier. He knew the true meaning of sacrifice. He had time and again thrown himself into the line of fire for comrades and friends. He had even done so for Sherlock. Not once had it been a difficult decision for him to make. And this time was no different._

_And as Sherlock pulled the trigger, John let his eyelids fall peacefully closed._

_He was ready this time._

_But John didn't die._

_The doctor had had enough Semtex strapped to his body that the whole building should have been reduced to crumbling stone and ash. The blast would have been quick, and given his proximity to the device, his death should have been quick._

_But there he was, lying on his back, shivers and stabs of agony attacking every fiber of his very being._

_"Sherlock!"_

_He had meant to shout for his friend, but wasn't quite sure if anything intelligible actually came out of his mouth._

_Behind his eyelids, sparks and colors were erupting, dancing amidst the darkness. Beyond that blackness, there were sounds. Noises._

_Chaos._

_Bullets and bombs and strangled shouts._

_The snipers. Had the snipers somehow survived? Were they firing on them?_

_No. Not the right sounds for snipers. John recognized these shots - but it couldn't be._

_His head was spinning. No - pounding. No - both._

_He tried desperately to gain his bearings without opening his eyes and unleashing the havoc that would certainly do his brain._

_Sherlock oftentimes tried to impose his methods of observation and deduction on his flatmate. Maybe it was time John finally started applying them._

_Scent. Strongest sense._

_He sniffed, expecting to be assaulted with the overpowering stench of chlorine and charred flesh against his nostrils._

_Only the latter burned through his nose. Suffocating._

_Familiar._

_He didn't need to rely on any further Sherlockian methods._

_He knew this smell. Knew these sounds. He knew this place._

_No. Not here._

_He couldn't be here._

_His eyes snapped open and he swallowed a rush of air. Flames danced dangerously around him. Dust and smoke and bullets poisoned the air. As he expelled the breath he had taken, with it tumbled out broken and cracked coughs. The dirt and smoke burned his throat and eyes and nose and something else too. Flesh. Right. Not his though. He had nearly burnt his hand on in chemistry class when a bully decided he would try and be funny. He knew what burning felt like. He wasn't on fire. But there was pain. Oh, yes, there it was._

_John glanced down his flattened body and his still staggering gaze slowly began to focus on a blur of green. No, not a blur. An object. A vehicle. A vehicle that just so happened to be pinning his leg to the earth._

_Fantastic._

_He blinked blearily and tried to glance around at his swirling surroundings. Hauntingly familiar faces flashed by him as they ducked for cover and fired back at their attackers._

_Attackers. Insurgents. Bombs. IED._

_He remembered this. Deja vu maybe. But wasn't he at the pool? No, the pool never happened. Or didn't happen yet. There was somebody else that had been there at the pool that wasn't a pool. Someone important. Someone -_

_A cry in a foreign yet all too familiar language sharpened his senses and brought John back to the - present? Someone had slipped through their scattered ranks and was charging straight toward him, weapon aiming for the downed soldier's head. He was granted time to thank. All he could do was act. It was pure instinct. His hand reached for his gun and without hesitating plugged a bullet into the stranger's stomach and skull._

_As the insurgent crumbled forward, his falling body revealed behind it one of John's friends, fighting for his life._

_Adam Perkins. 33. Husband. New father. Going home in a month. Brilliant card player. John's friend._

_John's friend who was promptly being overpowered by a man twice his size._

_Somehow Perkins had lost his weapon. John didn't time to question how. He lifted his arm once more and squeezed._

_But not before Perkins' assailant did the same._

_Two shots rang out._

_With the second, the stranger tumbled. But with the first, so did Perkins._

_"No!"_

_None of his own even turned at the shots or scream. His comrades were far too busy trying to save their own skin. They were severely outnumbered and bullets were coming down on them like rain. He doubted his friends had even noticed his or Perkins' predicament. He wasn't about the shout for help. Captain John Watson didn't ask for help. He also knew that distracting his fellow men now could mean certain death for them. They needed to focus. And so did he._

_Adam was a few meters out of reach, lying on his back and gasping. His whole body was arching and convulsing and screaming against the bullet that was now lodged in his chest._

_If John could just reach him. He could save him. He had to save him._

_Continually_ _glancing around him to check for any potential immediate threats, John sucked in a breath, squared his shoulders, and started to push. His arms shook under the weight of the jeep and he used to free leg for leverage. Grunting and groaning, John gradually lifted the vehicle enough to be able to writhe and slide his way to freedom._

_Somewhere in his mind he registered that his leg was crying out, but he swiftly ignored his own pain and half sprinting, half crawled, to Perkins' side._

_"Perkins! Hey, can you hear me? Look at me. Look. Come on. No, don't. Keep your eyes open, Perkins. Listen to me! Look right at me, alright? Good. Good."_

_John was no longer caring for his own safety. Every ounce of focus he had was being poured into saving his friend._

_"John," the man's usual bass tones were closer to tenor and thick with unshed tears. "John, tell Lisa -"_

_"Stop," John shook his head, "don't. I'm not gonna tell her anything because you're going home in a month and can tell her yourself. In fact, I think they'll send you home early now that you've been shot. Hope this wasn't some damn scheme to see your daughter sooner."_

_John smiled when he was able to pull a laugh off the man's lips._

_That laugh was to be the last thing ever on the dying man's lips as John watched the exact moment his friend's heart stopped. His eyes, which had previously been wandering toward the sky, were no longer look at anything. They were no longer Adam Perkins' eyes. They were no longer anything._

_John couldn't let Adam Perkins lie there like that in the middle of Afghanistan, a bullet in his chest, and not staring into the sky with not eyes. With the precision of a man who had done so far too many times in his life, the army doctor slid the soldier's lids closed._

_He didn't hear the insurgent behind him._

_Not until the shot was fired._

_And just like that fire and pain and white warmth were burning inside his shoulder. Through-and-through. Several centimeters above the heart. Lucky. Missed the collarbone. Ball-and-socket joint still in tact. Good. Definite nerve damage. Most likely cause of death. Blood loss._

_The thoughts hardly had time to process though as John whirled around and fired at his attacker._

_Another gut, instinctual reaction._

_And then the scream._

_Because, no, it wasn't like the movies. Yes, it did hurt so much more worse than he could have possibly ever imagined._

_He had seen so many bullet wounds in his career he couldn't count them all if he tried. And yet none of them prepared him for this._

_John tried to stand and saw nothing but stars for a solid six seconds. When the constellations cleared, John found himself somehow now facing the opposite direction, and face down in the dirt._

_He looked up just in time to see another one of his comrades fall, a bullet breaking through the man's skull._

_John took out his comrade's killer with almost a sense of satisfaction._

_John Watson watched the scene in front of him play out, ready to fight this fate. He was going to die. They all were._

_And that was not okay._


	5. Voice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TITLE: Wednesday
> 
> CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Five/ Voice
> 
> RATING: T (language, content)
> 
> A/N: phew. This dream sequence is taking awhile! And to think this was originally a oneshot?! What was I thinking! Don't worry, the dream won't drag on forever! I promise. I already have the rest of the dream and the awakening written and it all should be up tonight! *Applauds self* And then - dun dun dun - the confrontation!
> 
> Please read and review, many thanks.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.

John Watson watched the scene in front of him play out, ready to fight this fate. He was going to die. They all were.

And that was not okay.

_No matter how broken he was, John Watson wasn't going to go down without a fight. And he wasn't about to give up on his two remaining fellow soldiers. Even if they didn't die here, they would be taken and held for ransom, torture, information - or all three. He would much rather go out shooting than surrender._

_John watched as his comrade - Sutton - swiftly shot down two insurgents and then crouched for cover behind the overturned vehicle that had pinned John. The captain crawled to the man's side._

_"How many?" John shouted over the chaos._

_"20, maybe more."_

_"Minus 5, at least, so far," John nodded._

_"Ten," Sutton corrected. "Murray's given 'em hell, sir."_

_"Shit," John cast his eyes around, "Murray. Where is he?"_

_Murray. Bill Murray. 35. Husband. Father of two. Rubbish card player. Bloody brilliant prankster. Could make a weapon or bomb out of the contents of your pockets but couldn't count without using his fingers. Wreckless. Heroic. Selfless and stubborn bastard._

_Bill Murray._

_John Watson's best friend._

_How the hell had he forgotten about Bill in all this mess? How had he not looked for him sooner?_

_John popped up from their cover and fired as he scanned their surroundings. As John sunk back down, Sutton went up._

_"You're hit sir!" Sutton shouted as they switched once more._

_"So are you!" John bit back, the doctor not having missed the piece of debris from the explosion digging into the man's side._

_"You ladies havin' a tea party over here?"_

_John whirled his head around at their new companion._

_"Jes - Murray! I almost fucking shot you!" John admonished._

_"Like to see you try," Bill smirked._

_"I can't see right with all this damn smoke," Sutton swore as he knelt. "How many left?"_

_"I last saw three still standing," Murray reported readily._

_"Then let's bring 'em to their knees!" Sutton smiled and stood._

_A flurry of fire and bullets later and the three soldiers were left alone, a sudden and sharp new quiet blanketing the battleground. John hobbled to Perkins and then Henderson. He had to be sure. He caught Murray's questioning glance and only shook his head in reply. The doctor made to stand when his injured leg turned limp from the sudden weight._

_John's body went crumbling sideways - just as bullet blazed above him._

_A second sooner and the bullet would have met John's back. Instead, it passed over him, and straight into Murray's stomach._

_"Murray!"_

_Sutton swiftly spun around at the shot and shout, firing at the insurgent who had been laying wait in the tall grass. The soldier trained his weapon on the area, skillfully scanning for anymore surprises while John tripped and pushed and pulled himself toward Bill._

_"Damn it, Murray," John mumbled as he took stock of the hole in his friend's body, and the river of blood pouring out of it. "Three, huh? Never could count, could you?"_

_"Ain't exactly how I imagined takin' a bullet for someone," Murray coughed._

_"I'm sorry," John swallowed, self-loathing sweeping over him._

_"Eh, don't worry 'bout it. I won't tell no one you fainted like a girl." Bill hissed and his hips bucked as he bit back the agony. "It's okay, John. I woulda' done it anyway."_

_"Done what?" John searched his friend's fading eyes._

_"Takin' a bullet," Bill rasped with a small smile, "for you."_

_The man's irises dulled but this time John couldn't bring himself to close his lids. That was a task left for the medical part of his brain. The cool, clinical side._

_Right then, John Watson was anything but cool and clinical._

_"Damn it!" John reared back, his clenched fist connecting with the dirt ground. "Damn it! Damn it!"_

_He had been alone for so long. Why had he let someone get close? How had he been so stupid?_

_"Watson!"_

_A voice was trying to punch through John's haze of pain and anger. He felt his shoulder, leg - and heart, all burning. It colored and clouded his vision and mind._

_"Captain Watson! We need to move out!" Sutton called out to the near catatonic man._

_But John couldn't hear him. Not properly anyway. The pain and panic was taking over now that the adrenaline was dripping away. He vaguely felt his body swaying and then smacking into something hard._

_He was on his back - again._

_But this time, there was someone above him. Someone, somehow, familiar._

_"John! John, listen to me. Listen to my voice."_

_Voice._

_That voice._

_That brooding baritone he would recognize anywhere. But -_

_He didn't know that voice yet._

_Did he?_

_"You are a soldier, John. Now act like it. Pull yourself together."_

_Clenching his fists and straightening himself, John blinked back bile and flashes of agony as he pulled himself up off the ground._

_"Captain!"_

_His surroundings came so sharply into focus it sent a wave of nausea through the already queasy doctor. Sutton was leaning over him, one hand on the doctor's draining shoulder, the other steadying John's still slightly staggering body._

_"Right," John ground out, locking his jaw against the dizzying pain. "Transportation."_

_"What?"_

_"Did they have a vehicle?" John bit off assertively, knowing the man would respond and find relief from the familiar Captain's commanding tone._

_"Yeah," Sutton reported, "yes, sir. Looks like they got off with one of ours some time ago. But it's pretty shot up."_

_"Well," John sighed, struggling to stay upright, "at least theirs isn't on its side. Get Perkins and Henderson in the back. I'll take Murray."_

_"But what about you, sir?"_

_"Do it!" John barked the order. "Now!"_

_Sutton sprinted toward his fallen comrades and John released a haggard breath. Grunting and grimacing, John pushed his broken body up nad paused on his knees. There would be no easy, graceful or pain free way about this._

_Preparing himself with a nod of the head, John gripped his best friend's body and slung him over his shoulders. The brilliant flash of white hot blazing agony nearly sent the soldier to unconsciousness right then and there. He couldn't risk another toppling over and therefore stood much more slowly than before, applying pressure and weight in measured movements and moments. His legs wobbled and his knees protested, his injured limb crying out, but thankfully somehow holding its strength. It took him quite a bit longer than he liked, but finally John was standing with Murray hanging over his back. He moved forward with the speed and accuracy of a toddler taking his first steps._

_It felt like ages had passed when he at last came to the insurgent's stolen military vehicle. He laid Murray in the back next to Perkins and frowned. With how long it took John, Sutton should have had both Perkins and Henderson loaded in by now._

_Leaning heavily on the side of the jeep, John turned back and squinted into the mess of smoke and flames and harsh sunlight. He located Henderson's body rather quickly, but was then met by another slumped over familiar form._


	6. Violin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TITLE: Wednesday
> 
> CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Six/ Violin
> 
> RATING: T (language, content)
> 
> A/N: More dreaming...but we are leaving Afghanistan shortly. Where do John's nightmares take him next?
> 
> Please read and review, many thanks.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.

Leaning heavily on the side of the jeep, John turned back and squinted into the mess of smoke and flames and harsh sunlight. He located Henderson's body rather quickly, but was then met by another slumped over familiar form.

_"Sutton!"_

_Limping around to the side of the vehicle, John pushed a bullet hole riddled corpse out of the driver's seat and slipped inside. The machine moaned and eventually roared to life and John punched the pedal. Slamming to a stop seconds later, John staggered out of the seat and collapsed to his knees at Sutton's side._

_Daniel Sutton. 41. Single. Father of four. Wife died in car accident during deployment. Kids living with uncle. Rebel. Rule breaker. Cheat at cards. Honest in everything else._

_And - still breathing._

_"Shit," John swallowed back everything else and forced himself to focus. "Sutton. Sutton? Can you hear me?"_

_A sort of slur of syllables and noises were his only response._

_Until the vomiting began._

_Bright red blood broke past Sutton's lips and spilled onto the dirt and John positioned the man properly as to not choke on his own convulsions._

_"It's just you 'n me, Sutton. I'm not letting you die too."_

_John made quick work of examining his newest patient._

_Thrown from vehicle. Shrapnel possibly puncturing spleen. Severe blunt trauma to the abdomen. Suspected kidney laceration. Internal bleeding. Unconsciousness due to blood loss. Chance of survival -_

_No._

_Sutton would survive. Sutton had to survive. John Watson wasn't bringing back four dead bodies. He was a bloody doctor! What good was all his training if he couldn't at least save one of his own?_

_John had lost his best friend. Two women had lost their husbands. Three children had lost their fathers. No one else was going to lose someone they loved that day._

_John had no one. His parents were long since dead and Harry couldn't find her way out of a bottle to probably even miss him._

_But Sutton had his sons._

_Even if it killed him, John was going to get the man back alive._

_He was going to get them all back._

_He couldn't give the wives their husbands back or the children their fathers, but he could bring a body home to bury. It didn't seem like much, but a soldier's family understood._

_Stealing a strengthening breath, John scooped Sutton into his arms and dragged him up and into the passenger seat. He had to crawl on his knees to grab Henderson, the exhaustion and pain pushing him down. It took everything he had to shove the soldier's body in next to Perkins and Murray._

_Gripping the side of the jeep, John pulled himself to the front and nearly fell in._

_He was wrapping shaking fingers around the steering wheel when he felt the sudden and sharp stabs of pain to his side._

_The soldier glanced down, he hadn't been hit and yet it felt as though someone was digging their finger through his torso, poking, puncturing._

_And then a sudden ghost of a slap to the face and John was whirling and tumbling out of the vehicle and onto the ground._

_"I said, 'are you listening, Johnny boy'?"_

_No. It couldn't be._

_He wasn't here. There. Then. Now?_

_John cracked open protesting eyelids and instead of bright sun and flames, was met with darkness and something - someone - almost as terrifying as Afghanistan._

_Wordlessly - because John was sure if he opened his mouth to speak he might scream - John nodded at the frighteningly familiar face._

_"Good!" The man cackled, his voice leaping up an octave. "He's trained you so well. So obedient. Such a good pet. You know your place."_

_John couldn't help it. He spit on the man's cheek._

_"Hmm. Maybe not." The man sighed and smiled. "Oh, well. I'm quite good at - breaking - people."_

_A fist from somewhere in the dark connected with John's stomach, and then again, and again, until the doctor finally bent forward and was gasping for air._

_"We're going to have a little fun, John. Pity. You already know the game. You know how it ends. Boom!"_

_"No," John seethed through broken breaths, "I won't be some pawn in your bloody sick game. I won't let you blow up a bunch of innocent people."_

_"Good! Then we won't have any problems! You see, I don't want to blow up a bunch of boring innocent people. Well, not this time. Just two. And let's face it, Johnny, you and Sherlock Holmes aren't so innocent, are you?"_

_"I won't let you hurt him," John vowed in a dark voice._

_"Hurt him? I don't want to hurt him, John. Just talk. Just a friendly meet and greet. You know, getting to know each other. Introducing myself. You're just me - leverage. Just my way of proving a point. And besides, playing with Sherlock's head and heart is almost too easy. But it's still fun."_

_"What do you want with Sherlock? Why are you doing any of this?"_

_"Oh! Time's up! No more questions! Our contestant has arrived! It's showtime, Johnny! Now, just do exactly as we discussed and just maybe I won't blow you and your master to teensy tiny little bits."_

_John didn't put up a struggle as he was lead by a pool and shoved unceremoniously into a cubicle. He stayed silent as the footsteps faded and new, familiar ones, sounded._

_"Brought you a little getting to know you present."_

_The similarities in Sherlock's words to the madman's had John shivering._

_Sherlock was speaking but John now couldn't hear him over the buzzing in his ear._

_"Showtime." John's captor repeated, this time in his ear piece. "Break a leg, Johnny."_

_Stiffening, John briefly closed his eyes and stepped outside to face his friend._

_Except Sherlock wasn't there._

_No one was._

_In fact, it wasn't even_ there  _anymore. The pool._

_But he definitely recognized this place as well._

_Another skip in time. Another memory. Another terror._

_It was dim here too. All lights having gone out. He waited with baited breath for what he knew would come._

_And then he heard it._

_The hound._

_Now John was running. Ducking and sprinting and trying to breathe normally. Well, semi-normally. Well, breathe, period._

_Dogs and soldiers' cries and bombs and Moriarty's laugh all swam about the room. Sirens and bullets and children crying as their father's body was lowered into the ground._

_He had to escape the beast. To escape it all._

_Sounds were swirling and images assaulted his senses._

_John threw himself into a cage, bruising his back as he flung himself against the far corner and wall._

_John frantically fumbled for his phone._

_Sherlock._

_He had to call Sherlock._

_Sherlock would save him. He always saved him._

_But before his fingers could stop trembling long enough to punch any numbers, all sounds outside the cage suddenly ceased. It was as if someone had simply thrown a switch._

_Something else was now hanging in the air._

_Slow, melodic, familiar._

_Violin._

_Sherlock._

_He didn't know why his flatmate was there or playing, but he also didn't care. All that mattered was that his friend was there, somewhere, with him._

_John tentatively rose to his feet and slipped out of the cage. The room was still dark, black even. John had to take each step with caution. He was halfway to the door when, like a carnival ride coming to life, the horrors returned._

_The music was gone._

_The hound and Afghanistan and Moriarty remained._


	7. The Man at the End of the Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TITLE: Wednesday
> 
> CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Seven/ The Man at the End of the Nightmare
> 
> RATING: T (language, content)
> 
> A/N: Very short chapter. Sorry. This is the "end" of John's dreaming. Or, at least, for now. There is more that we don't see - yet. More that John will remember, eventually. This was where I wanted to end it now. It will all make sense later...I hope.
> 
> Please read and review, many thanks.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.

John tentatively rose to his feet and slipped out of the cage. The room was still dark, black even. John had to take each step with caution. He was halfway to the door when, like a carnival ride coming to life, the horrors returned.

The music was gone.

The hound and Afghanistan and Moriarty remained.

_John skidded backward, twisting and turning, intent on retreating back behind the tarp, only to find the cage completely gone._

_The entire building evaporated around him, replaced by trees and fog._

_No._

_The Hollow._

_He could hear the giant dog barking and breathing behind him._

_He didn't turn around._

_He could hear Murray choking on his blood._

_He didn't turn around._

_He could hear Jim Moriarty cackling._

_He didn't turn around._

_Instead, John Watson ran._

_Through the leaves and grass. Over hills and under branches. Around stones and across streams._

_He didn't turn around._

_And then suddenly he could hear it again._

_The music._

_It was steaming from somewhere in front of him._

_The hound and Afghanistan and Moriarty still behind him._

_He had to reach the music._

_He had to reach Sherlock._

_John's legs tore through the air and he almost stumbled when the ground underneath his pounding feet shifted suddenly._

_He was back in the building._

_But not in the lab._

_Thank God, not in the lab._

_He didn't stop to question it as the melody pulled him forward, the horrors chasing close behind._

_He slid around a corner and came face to face with a dark skinned child, aiming a gun at his face._

_Another turn, and glowing fir and bright eyes nearly paralyzed him._

_A third hallway brought him skidding to a stop to spin around and escape the madman in a suit._

_John was about to wonder if he was going in circles when he finally broke through a door - and was met with the most terrifying sight of them all._

_Sherlock Holmes, John's flatmate, John's friend, was sitting casually in a chair, gleefully watching a monitor. A monitor that just happened to be showing John, running and hiding. Sherlock was staring at the small screen with intrigue and delight._

_Sherlock, the man behind the curtain. Had he been pulling the strings and setting the stage this entire time? The man at the end of the nightmare?_

_"You?"_

_John couldn't stop the word as if fell from his gasping mouth._

_"Don't act so surprised, John," Sherlock sneered. "Even you aren't that stupid to not figure it out."_

_"Figure out what?" John shook his head, denying the answer he knew was coming._

_"You're nothing more than an experiment, John. A guenie pig, really."_

_"No. That - that's not true. You're - lying. You're -"_

_"Oh, hurry up John and spit it out. I haven't got all day to listen to your boring blathering."_

_"Sherlock -"_

_"I've told you, John. Sentiment is a mistake."_

_"Why?"_

_"I knew what effect it had on a superior mind so I needed to try it on an average one."_

_"No - not - not the bloody experiment, Sherlock! I was your friend!"_

_"I don't have friends."_

_The sentence punctured John's chest and for the faintest of moments he was back in Afghanistan. The bullet wasn't in his shoulder this time. Carrying the fatal words of his friend, the molded metal buried itself straight through the soldier's heart._

_And then John was falling. The bullet pushed and propelled his body backward and John Watson plummeted into a black abyss._


	8. Innocent Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TITLE: Wednesday
> 
> CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Eight/ Innocent Sleep
> 
> RATING: T (language, content)
> 
> A/N: The passage Sherlock is quoting in this scene is from Macbeth. I chose Macbeth because it is a book found in the set for 221B. While it isn't a manual or biography of a serial killer or something we might expect BBC Sherlock to read and know, the ACD Sherlock would quote Shakespeare. Especially picked this work because it is a work that is centered around murder, etc. I also thought the passage fit well with the subject matter of this story. Instead of explaining it my own rambling, dull, words, here is an excerpt from an article on the sleep motifs in Macbeth.
> 
> [[This is another example of Macbeth's paranoia in the same scene. Here, Macbeth is confessing to Lady Macbeth that he believes he heard someone say, "Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep!" He calls it the innocent sleep, perhaps realizing that Duncan was unaware about the danger and not doing anyone harm while he slept. And yet, Macbeth killed. Further, Macbeth proceeds to talk about how sleep eases worries, relieves the aches of physical work, soothes those who have anxiety, and nourishes the body and mind like food. Sleep appears meaningful to Macbeth, though he will never be able to rest peacefully without nightmares after Duncan's death]]
> 
> Please read and review, many thanks.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson had had a fair share of tenants over the years at 221B Baker Street. There was the attorney and his rebel teenage son. The boy had burned down the curtains in the upstairs bedroom three times within the first month. The elderly sisters from Sussex. They made the loveliest hand knit scarves. The newlyweds who had more domestics than the landlady cared to count before she called the police on that no good husband. There was that famous actor – oh, she could never quite remember his name. She never quite approved of all the young ladies he would bring home. The nice couple from Germany with their new baby. Mrs. Hudson continually had to remind them that she was their landlady, not their nanny – even though she secretly adored the little acorn and would sometimes suggest new date night ideas to get to spend time with him.

But none of them had crept their way into the older woman's heart like the pair that currently resided just above her. Sherlock Holmes was the son she never had. She could quite keenly see through his forced exterior, even when they first met. He had helped her with her husband's conviction and hadn't accepted a single scrap of monetary compensation from the new widow. She had been elated when he had come around asking about the recently vacated flat. She was absolutely aware of his antics, but agreed nonetheless. It was an unconditional love she harbored for the sometimes horror of a man.

And then there was John. Doctor John Watson. One of the kindest men Mrs. Hudson had ever had the privilege of meeting. He was sweet, compassionate and selfless. Yet he was no doormat. He stood up to Sherlock and even calmed the consulting detective. Mrs. Hudson was fairly certain that, had it not been for John Watson, she would have far worse damage than a few bullet holes in the wall to deal with. The medical man oftentimes made it a point to pay the woman a visit and check up on her health. He even, on several occasions, saw to her hip and prescribed her medication. The man, much unlike Sherlock, always offered her his thanks when she made him tea or food. And, just like Sherlock, he had wormed his way into her heart.

Her boys.

So, later that day, when Mrs. Hudson marched up the steps to 221B, just like any other mother, she had been fully set on handing out a good reprimanding to one Sherlock Holmes. Sometimes it was like dealing with a child when it came to the younger man. She knew, just like a brother would, Sherlock would try to hide this little experiment – or whatever it was the detective had done to the doctor – from John. John was a good man. Her good boy. He deserved to know the truth.

She just hoped the former soldier wouldn't try to retaliate as an older brother would. She was only a surrogate mother to the boys, and she seriously doubted her abilities to pull an ex-military man and a martial arts master apart.

What she didn't expect, though, upon entering 221B, was that she would suddenly have to desire to pull the two apart all.

She hovered hesitantly in the threshold, soft eyes staring at the scene in front of her.

John was still lying on the couch, though now he was still and silent. His arm was draped over the slumped over sleuth who was taking up residence on the floor. The detective's body was packed tightly between the coffee table and the piece of furniture, his back resting against the couch while his long legs sprawled underneath and around the table. His head was lolled backward, his forehead nearly touching the doctor's cheek. Following John's arm down the detective's body, Mrs. Hudson grinned as she found their hands clasped together. Sherlock's fingers were around John's, gripping as if for hanging on for dear life.

Gentle music floated above the two forms and Mrs. Hudson glanced curiously at the speaker system.

She was about to leave the two presumably sleeping men when she heard another soft sound.

"Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more!/Macbeth does murder sleep,' the innocent sleep,/Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care,/The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,/Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,/Chief nourisher in life's feast—"

The baritone continued on. Sherlock's eyes were closed and his lips hardly parted for the whispered words. There was a stack of books sitting next to the man on the floor, but this one he seemed to recite from memory alone.

As much as Mrs. Hudson suspected and imagined her tenants as lovers, there was no denying that they were, in fact, brothers. She would never abandon her theory, of course, but in that very moment, the two men in front of her, her boys, were brother. And a kind of kin bonded by something so much more thicker than blood.

She also mused that, on this rare occasion, Sherlock had stepped up and into the role of the elder sibling. He was actually caring for someone else. She distantly wondered if in their childhood Mycroft Holmes had ever read to the young Sherlock in a similar fashion. She would never ask. And Sherlock would certainly never tell.

Mrs. Hudson noiselessly backed out of the flat, silently shutting the door on the sweet scene. She would save her lecture for another time.


	9. Setting the Stage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TITLE: Wednesday
> 
> CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Nine/ Setting the Stage
> 
> RATING: T (language, content)
> 
> A/N: FINALLY John is awake! Wow. Took him long enough!
> 
> Please read and review, many thanks.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.

It was nearly 1:30 on Thursday morning when a very confused John Watson trudged down the steps from his bedroom.

He didn't know why he was suddenly wide awake in the middle of the night. He didn't know there were painkillers next to his bed or an extra blanket over his body. He didn't know that only fifteen minutes earlier his flatmate had somehow successfully carried the man over his shoulders and slipped John under his sheets. He didn't even know it was Thursday.

Sherlock had waited until practically the last possible minute to finally let go of his friend's hand. He was surprised and perplexed to find himself reluctant to do so. He would've asked John about the strange sentiment settling inside of him, but seeing as the doctor was the subject of the experiment that elicited such emotions, he thought better of it. Giving the man's hand one final reassuring squeeze, Sherlock drew his stiff arm back. As he was soon to find out, it wasn't solely his arm that had turned rigid. His entire body creaked and cracked and cried out in protest as the man stood and stretched. His legs in particular had apparently fallen into slumber and he nearly toppled over right onto the sleeping form of his friend. Checking the time, Sherlock nearly sprinted to stop the music that had been cascading over the flat. Whirling around, he ran a hand over the back of his neck. He hadn't quite thought this part through. For a man of science, Sherlock's fervor for finishing the case had blinded him to more than one pertinent details to this experiment.

Several painstaking, groaning, and nearly-dropping-his-flatmate-on-his-skull-on-the-stairs, minutes later, Sherlock had the good doctor settled in his own bed.

He knew what to do next. Dipping a hand into his pocket, Sherlock retrieved a small bottle of paracetamol, twisted open the lid, and shook out a few pills. Placing the loose pills in his pocket, Sherlock set the painkillers, still open, on John's bedside table. He was downstairs to the kitchen and then back up to the bedroom in a flash, a glass of half full room temperature water in his hand. He set the liquid next to the bottle, but only after pressing the lip of the cup to John's lips, creating the perfect imprint of evidence.

Although Sherlock would absolutely never admit it, Mycroft had been right when telling John that his little brother was once for the dramatics.

The detective placed a hot cloth on the doctor's face and then proceeded to shift John so that his head was hanging off the side of the bed, allowing all the blood to rush to his brain.

He wasn't going to be too specific with the "symptoms". Too much detail and the charade would be obvious to even John. His flatmate was a medical man, after all, so staging an exact illness would be unwise. Leave it vague and let John's mind and assumptions fill in the rest.

Once John's cheeks were fittingly flushed, Sherlock positioned the man's head back against his pillows and removed the fabric. He bolted downstairs one final time and returned carrying his own blanket, the one he had draped over John all those hours ago. It certainly carried John's scent and sweat. He quickly and quietly added it to John's other coverings and then made his silent exit. John's window had already been shut and covered and Sherlock made quick work of pulling the curtains on all the other closed until the flat was completely cut off from the outside world. He then scurried into the kitchen, seizing the toast he had prepared earlier that morning before beginning the experiment. He bit off a small portion, spit it in with the rubbish, and left it unceremoniously on a plate next to John's chair. Next he fetched the cold cup of tea Mrs. Hudson had made and placed it beside the seemingly forgotten bread.

The stage manager was just slipping back into the kitchen when he heard the familiar creak of the bed above him.

It was there that the bleary eyed doctor found the detective as he shuffled his way through the sitting room and into the makeshift laboratory.

"You're up," was his casual greeting from the man whose face was buried in a microscope.

"Yeah," John grunted, wiping a hand down his face, "uh, apparently. Say, Sherlock, you wouldn't happen to know why –" John thought of the oddities in his bedroom before cutting himself off when he got a proper look at his obviously fatigued flatmate. "See you haven't gone to bed yet."

"I have a  _case_ , John." Sherlock sighed and John didn't need to see the man's eyes to imagine them rolling dramatically.

"Well, you said yourself the murderer isn't going to kill again until Friday. You have two days. I think you can rest a bit."

"One day," Sherlock mumbled.

"What?" John paused on his way to the kettle.

"You know how I hate repeating myself, John," Sherlock moaned. "One day. One day until the killer strikes."

"So he's going to kill on Thursday now? What changed?" John questioned, genuinely interested and concerned.

"Nothing changed," Sherlock huffed, feigning just the proper amount of his usual annoyance and aggravation.

"So on Friday then?" John shook his head.

"Yes, of course on Friday! Leaving me," Sherlock glanced at his watch, "Leaving my approximately 22 hours and 24 minutes to catch him. Do keep up. Or stop talking. Either one. I need to  _concentrate_."

Sherlock might have been lying about everything else, but that one sentence was every bit of truth. His miscalculation with John had cost him dear time in the case. He could now prove the drug's effectiveness. It was just a matter of proving that the criminal had actually used it, convincing the courts of the suspected parties' innocence, and the most important factor – finding the murderer before he did truly kill again. Somehow, though, he couldn't quite focus on the case. There was something busy bubbling away in his gut, distracting him.

_Sentiment? Guilt?_

Sherlock brushed the thoughts aside.

_Impossible._

What did Sherlock have to feel remorse for? There was a killer that needed to be caught. Lives saved. A case solved. He had merely done what was best for everyone.

Well, maybe not everyone.

_Shut up. Focus! John's watching you!_

"You do know it's Wednesday?" John stepped toward his flatmate, concern knitting against his brow. "Maybe you need sleep more than you think, Sherlock."

"And maybe you should check the date, John." Sherlock snapped.

John stared skeptically at his friend before pulling his mobile from his dressing gown pocket.

"That's not –" John interrupted himself again. "Thursday? How in the  _hell_ is it Thursday?"

"I do hope I don't have to explain the basic progression of days of the week to you, John," Sherlock scoffed.

"It – it was Tuesday." John stammered.

Sherlock hummed for a moment. Apparently the drug was still working its way out of the doctor's system. Normally even John would have been able to draw his own conclusions by now.

"Yes," Sherlock delivered one of his signature sighs. "And then Wednesday, and then Thursday. Do I need to keep going? Did whatever dull illness you somehow contracted and dragged into the flat damage your brain cells?"

"Illness?" John echoed.

His mind flashed back to the paracetamol, the glass of water, the blanket, how his head had been heavy and swimming upon waking and his cheeks unusually warm.

"Yes, John. As in you, sick. You probably flooded the entire building with whatever microorganisms you brought home. I'll have to have Mrs. Hudson clean and disinfect the flat. Not that I ever get ill." He waved a hand flippantly. "I just don't want your pathogens interfering with my experiments."

"Well, I feel fine now," John shook his head.

"Hmm," Sherlock tried to sound disinterested as his eyes flicked up to the doctor when he was mentally taking notes to make certain his test hadn't had any more adverse effects of his friend.

"Yeah," John poured his tea and sipped it slowly. "Bit knackered, even though I feel like I've slept for a day."

 _More or less._ Sherlock thought to himself.

"Heads a bit funny," John added, "and bloody hungry."

John rubbed his head before continuing.

"Probably just a ruddy migraine." He shrugged. "Mum used to get them when I was a kid before she passed."

Sherlock hid the slight smile that sparked on the corner of his lips. People, in general, tended to simply fill in the blanks when faced with a convenient lie.

"Sherlock," John headed for the question again with more confidence this time, "why was  _your_  duvet on  _my_ bed?"

"I told you, John, I don't have  _time_ for questions now," Sherlock changed the slide he was examining, not happy about having to divulge details as they almost always just pointed out the lie. "If you must know, you came downstairs, muttering about something. I don't know. I mostly tuned you out. I remember something about complaining about burning your toast and at some point, really it could have been hours later, I wasn't paying attention, you complained you were cold. You also complained about the sun, the smell of my experiment, food, something about the weather, I think you even told me to piss off. Or sod off. One of the two. Like I said, you were partially muted by then."

"Glad to know you care," John spoke sarcastically.

"Oh, please, John. Don't be so dramatic. You were fine." Sherlock swallowed, his memory flashing him back to watching his friend writhe and scream. "I saw no signs of serious illness and returned to my work."

"Right," John sighed, shaking his head. "Your work. And how's that coming?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes. Just fine. I think I now have all the data I need. Just a matter of catching the criminal before tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," John repeated, still shook with somehow missing an entire day from his memory. "Right."

John wandered out of the kitchen and Sherlock secretly watched his flatmate as he paused at his chair. He watched John eye the tea and toast and then shake his head.

_He trusts you. After everything you've done. Baskerville. Now this. And he still trusts you._

Sherlock desired so desperately to just cast it off as John being a fool. But that wasn't the truth and Sherlock knew it.

_You bastard._


	10. Simple Science

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TITLE: Wednesday
> 
> CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Ten/ Simple Science
> 
> RATING: T (language, content)
> 
> A/N: FINALLY, the truth comes to light! 
> 
> Please read and review, many thanks.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.

It was Friday evening and 221B Baker Street was remarkably and unusually calm. A comfortable quiet had settled over the flat as its two tenants busied themselves with their own silent hobbies. John sat slouching back in his chair, slowly typing up the case that had come to a close earlier that day while Sherlock sat across from him, eyes drowning in an open book.

"So," John started as he realized his entry was missing a detail of the case, "how did you prove that the killer used that specific drug? You never told me."

"Hmm?" Sherlock didn't even glance away from his page. "Oh, right. Simple science."

"Not simple to me," John smiled, "care to explain?"

Sherlock swallowed. There was that unexplainable knot in his stomach again.

_Not guilt. Not guilt. Not guilt._

It panged even worse when the detective finally met the doctor's curious gaze. John had astounded him from their first meeting. The older man was not put off by Sherlock's deductions, but instead praised them. He asked for explanations and elaborations. Sure, sometimes John would grow weary of Sherlock's certain flare for showcasing these certain talents, but he never of the skills themselves. He truly admired Sherlock's observation prowess and asked intelligent and probing questions that made Sherlock feel validated, wanted.

John paused when Sherlock didn't dive right into a detailed account of his genius. Sure, sometimes Sherlock would grow weary of repeating himself, but John knew the man appreciated the interest. He may insult John's intelligence, but John knew Sherlock was always secretly pleased and proud to share his findings and flaunt his abilities. John was normally genuinely quite interested, even if he did tend to tire of Sherlock's crass or arrogant behavior when making his deductions or explaining his process. Yet he also made a point to ask Sherlock these things for  _Sherlock_ 's sake as well. It gave his flatmate joy and that was enough for John. Because John knew, behind that crassness and arrogance, there was an innocence. It was a wall, protection. Sherlock had said it himself. People never truly appreciated him or his talents. John even suspected Mycroft's treatment of Sherlock as a child, most likely belittling the younger sibling and his "lack of superior Mycroft standard intelligence" often. So he asked. He asked to learn himself, but he asked so he could see that familiar flare in his friend's eyes, and sometimes, even a genuine smile.

"Sherlock?" John spoke his flatmate's name when the man remained silent.

"It's above your head, John," Sherlock replied flippantly.

"Sherlock, I'm a doctor," John rolled his eyes. "Despite what you might think, I am not a complete idiot, especially when it has to do with drugs or other substances. Might be useful in case I ever get a patient presenting with the symptoms."

"This isn't the common cold," Sherlock scoffed. "I highly doubt you would come across this chemical compound."

John frowned. Sherlock was being rather tight lipped. Too much so.

"How was your –  _date_ ," Sherlock sniffed, "with – Ka – Ky –"

"Kelsey," John sighed. "And, if you actually care to know, which I know you don't, we broke it off."

"She broke it off," Sherlock corrected casually.

"No, Sherlock." John shook his head. "We agreed."

"Hmm," Sherlock sounded none too convinced but John wasn't going to allow the man to pull him into this game.

He was trying to distract John. But from what? The case? Finding out more about the drug? Why? What did it matter? Why would Sherlock need to keep it secret? And from John of all people?

John was still internally scratching his head when his glance dropped from Sherlock's face to the book in the man's hand.

Macbeth.

" _Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more!/ Macbeth does murder sleep,' the innocent sleep – "_

_"To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself."_

John shook his head.

_Where the hell did that come from?_

John had never read Macbeth. He could barely remember any of the Shakespeare he had been forced to read in school. Had he gone to see the play or film and forgotten?

Something had been odd about the lines that flashed through his head though.

They hadn't been in his or some actor's voice.

They were Sherlock's.

John pinched the bridge of his nose.

_"Watson!"_

John snapped his head up at the sudden shout.

The doctor pretended not to notice Sherlock's pretending not to notice the movement.

It was certainly not the first time he had heard that cry, and others like it, outside of his nightmares. But usually there was some sort of a trigger. One of Sherlock's blasted experiments blowing sky high. Gunshots. A war program on the telly. What did Shakespeare have to do with Afghanistan?

Shaking his head, John lifted himself heavily out of his chair and placed his laptop on the table. Padding over to the window, John drew back the curtain and allowed his mind to drift as he gazed down into the darkened streets. He only permitted his brain to drift, mind you. He let it sink and turn over in a sort of repetitive nothingness. Just, drifting. If he so much as let it begin to wander, he would be pulled back to Afghanistan and dirt and bombs and pain.

He was still calming himself when a dark shape swept across the street. Two shadows chasing each other. No, not shadows. Animals. Dogs. A pair of black beasts raced down the sidewalk as what appeared to be an out of breath owner followed in pursuit, hollering what must have been the disobedient mongrels' names. John watched as the puffing man finally caught the canines and directed them back into the house down the street. A young boy was getting a verbal lashing as the dogs were ushered inside. The kid probably had left the door opened or something of the sort, John surmised idly as he casually watched the scene finish playing out.

The street was quiet once more but John swore he still heard something. Distant, growing louder.

_Barking._

But the dogs were inside now. He had seen them escorted in.

That was when he realized the noise wasn't coming from the road, but from inside his own head. His  _memory_.

_Burning red eyes were hungrily advancing upon him. Fur glowing and jaw snapping eagerly. John was trapped. Trapped and alone._

John shook his head and glanced down to see that his hands were gripping the windowsill dangerously. He could see his chest rising and falling at a much faster rate than normal and feel his heart hammering. His pulse drummed in his ears. Images swam around his head, trying to drown him.

He wasn't about to let this happen. Not over some ridiculous dogs and quote from Shakespeare he didn't understand how he recognized.

 _No._  He was John Hamish Watson.  _Soldier. Doctor._

He felt his skin growing clammy and blinked away perspiration.

_No. No. No._

_Captain John Hamish bloody Watson._

He was sucking in another greedy and haggard breath when a nearly deafening explosion rang out behind him. Okay, so maybe, not deafening. But it certainly sounded like it to him.

_The blast was far louder than anything John had heard. Of course he had training. Of course he had been around explosions before. But somehow, there, in the heat of all of it, it sounded so much louder. So much more wild and horrifying._

_And then the vehicle was in the air - and so was John. Metal and flesh tossing and rolling and turning and tumbling together as one._

John didn't know when or how exactly he had ended up on the floor and couldn't find the willpower to care. He watched, his vision tilting, as Sherlock leap out of his chair to extinguish the small fire his little experiment had erupted in the kitchen. No sooner was the immediate danger doused did the detective come crashing to his knees in front of the doctor.

_The experiment._

_"Simple science."_

_Experiment._

_Baskerville._

_The case._

_"Simple science."_

_"The victims lose an entire day. No memories. Nothing."_

_"Not an entire day. 18 hours. Almost exactly."_

_"How are you going to prove that?"_

_"This isn't the common cold."_

_"Simple science."_

" _Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more!/ Macbeth does murder sleep,' the innocent sleep – "_

_"To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself."_

_"Simple science."_

_"Watson!"_

_"Thursday? How in the _hell_ is it Thursday?"_

_"Illness?"_

_"This isn't the common cold."_

_"Simple science."_

And just like the panic attack, it hit him.

John was still sweating and shaking when he finally brought his glare up to meet Sherlock's unreadable eyes.

"You bastard."


	11. Not Fine

"Simple science."

_And just like the panic attack, it hit him._

_John was still sweating and shaking when he finally brought his glare up to meet Sherlock's unreadable eyes._

_"You bastard."_

Sherlock should have probably realized what was coming next. The clenched jaw. The hard eyes. The slight shifting of the shoulder.

And yet, when his friend's fist connected with his face, he was caught completely off guard and stumbled from his squatting position, landing on his back.

Maybe it was sentiment that had been clouding his consulting eyes.

Or maybe, deep down, the detective knew how much he truly deserved it.

Either way, Sherlock found himself lying on the floor. By the time he was sitting up and rubbing his jaw, John was already across the room.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock questioned, internally reprimanding himself for his instinctual impatient tone.

"Out," was all he received for a response.

"John," Sherlock swallowed, staring up earnestly at his fuming friend, "I'm -"

"Don't," John bit off the word like a bullet. "Just, don't. Don't apologize. Don't say a single word, Sherlock. Because I can't even tell if you really are sorry, or it's just you  _acting_ , like you did when I woke up. Lying to me,  _again_. Because I  _am_ an  _idiot_ , just like you always say, for trusting you again after Baskerville. Because if you say  _one more word_ , I swear to God, you won't get up from that floor. Because I'm going out. Because  _if_ I  _don't_ , I will do something I will regret later." He paused a beat and then shook his head. "Maybe. Of course, maybe I won't. Seeing how you  _certainly_ don't regret  _anything_ you do to  _me_."

Before the genius' brain could even form a thought to respond, the soldier swiftly turned on his heel, and marched stiffly out the door.

Sherlock didn't get up.

He suddenly had an overwhelming and irrational, and quite irritating, fear that his friend was leaving for good this time.

_"I'm going out."_

No. He said "out". Not "I'm leaving".

John was a man who chose his words carefully. He always said what he meant, and meant what he said.

Still, Sherlock was uncertain. Even if his flatmate hadn't packed up his possessions and left right then, it didn't mean he wouldn't do so the moment he returned. Whenever he returned.

John oftentimes went "out" when upset by Sherlock. The longest he ever stayed away, though, was overnight. And yet Sherlock was certain that he had never seen that utter look of hurt on his friend's face. This was different than those times. Sherlock could calculate how long John would need to cool down before returning to the flat whenever this had happened before. But nothing like  _this_ had happened before. And Sherlock had no calculations. Not a single clue as to what to expect from his flatmate now. If he even was his flatmate any longer.

_Fine._

What did Sherlock care if John left? He had happily lived alone before the doctor came limping into his life, he could easily do so again. It would be a relief. His skull wouldn't make dull conversation or punch him. He wouldn't have to worry about getting lectures about body parts in the fridge. No one to annoyingly remind him of social niceties. To nag him about eating or sleeping or breathing.

No one to ease his maddening boredom in between cases. No one to make him a cup of tea without him having to ask. No one to giggle with at crime scenes or chase criminals. To have his back during the particularly dangerous adventures. To compliment him and insult him. To do the shopping. No one to secretly make him breakfast after he hadn't eaten for four days straight on a case and leaving it on the table for when he woke up before slipping off to work. To actually, honestly, sometimes provide him with stimulating conversation.

To be his flatmate.

To be his friend.

Sherlock hadn't been lying when he had told John that he didn't have friends.

Just one.

He secretly carried several others close to his heart. His parents, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly. (And in a hidden place he himself didn't even know about, Mycroft.)

But what he had with John was different. Something he had never had with another human before.

So, no, it wasn't fine. Not at all.

And neither was he.

As John stormed down the stairs, he nearly knocked his landlady right over in the hall.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," He said earnestly, though he couldn't hide his emotions.

"John, dear, what's the matter?" She placed a tender hand on his shoulder and thankfully didn't react when he pulled away from the gesture.

"It's nothing, Mrs. Hudson," John lied as he opened the door, "I'm fine."

But as John stepped out onto the darkened street he knew one thing was for certain.

He most definitely was not fine. Not fine at all.


	12. Not Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TITLE: Wednesday
> 
> CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Twelve: Not Good
> 
> RATING: T (language, content)
> 
> A/N: this whole story has just kind of kept spinning. i thought it'd be done chapters ago. even when I think it's ready to be over, it stands up, slaps me across the face and says "focus!". ready for a twist? even i wasn't ready for it! like Sherlock's serviettes, it just sort of...happened. it will make sense. promise! it actually makes it easier to include something i've wanted to find a way to add since the beginning.
> 
> Please read and review, many thanks.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.

Was it John's brightest idea to go walking in the middle of the night while still recovering from an episode triggered by posttraumatic stress disorder?

Probably not.

Was it a better idea than sticking around 221B and pummeling his flatmate?

…Maybe.

John stomped down the sidewalk, not looking and certainly not caring where he was going. His head and heart were too full and heavy to concern themselves with any sense of direction.

He couldn't believe Sherlock had done this.

Again.

Right on the heels of Baskerville.

John had forgiven the man without much fuss then. Of course he had been hurt. Of course his trust in his friend had been shaken. But it was Sherlock. What was he to expect? And it was for a case. It was to help Henry. He could deal with that. And he had also gotten the added bonus of knowing Sherlock had actually been wrong about something for once.

So why was this time different?

It was for a case. It was to save innocent lives. And Sherlock was still Sherlock. Why would he assume him to be any different now than he had been then?

Maybe because now it was real. It wasn't some drug induced vision of a dog. No made up hallucination.

These were memories. Real, painful, events John had been forced to endure. Experiences he couldn't attribute to a simple lab experiment. He didn't imagine his friends dying. He didn't invent his getting shot. He didn't hallucinate Moriarty or the actual dog in the Hollow. This was his life. And Sherlock had thrust it in his face in Technicolor. Maybe he didn't properly remember the apparent 18 hours he had been under, but he didn't need to be the world's only consulting detective to deduce what had happened during that time.

And then there was Sherlock's blanket that he had woken up underneath.

If it wasn't terrible enough that John was indescribably furious at his flatmate, he now also had to carry the shame of Sherlock having seen him at his very weakest.

He wasn't honestly positive which one was worse.

His downward glance caught sight of something on the skin of his knuckle.

Blood.

Sherlock's blood.

_Good._

John wasn't proud of the thought. But still it came.

He idly wondered if Mycroft and his hidden cameras in the flat that the tenants pretended not to know about had caught the performance. If the government man was now tracking his path and would soon ring up like that of their first meeting. Maybe he'd be escorted to some dim warehouse and punished for laying a finger on the British government's little brother.

But then again, he also imagined Mycroft could sympathize. He wondered if the posh Holmes brothers had ever lowered themselves to fistfights and scuffles as children.

He really had to stop thinking about blood and fights or the soldier in him was going to turn right around, march back, and decorate Sherlock's face with his fists.

Was this all a game to the man? Their friendship was just one big experiment?

_"You're nothing more than an experiment, John. A guinea pig, really."_

_He'd had that dream so many times since Baskerville. He was willing to bet that it had made an appearance during his drug induced slumber. Ironic._

_"I don't have friends."_

And there it was, bubbling underneath the burning rage and shame.

The hurt.

The piece of him that felt betrayed and broken.

Because he didn't have friends either.

Sure, he had Mike, Bill, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Greg and other people that he considered friends and cared deeply for.

But his relationship with Sherlock was different. Something he had never experienced with another person before.

And he wasn't even sure it was there anymore.

Or if it ever was there at all.

Was it just this one sided fantasy? Did Sherlock care about John at all?

The doctor was pretty positive he had his answer already given the evidence.

He desperately desired to think it was a good thing.

That he no longer would have to put up with the man's ridiculous habits and cold behavior. No more middle of the night violin concerts. No more risking his life every time he went into the kitchen. No more kidnappings. No one to interrupt all his dates or deduce his girlfriends until they walked out. No one to "confiscate" his laptop or repeatedly borrow his mobile. No one to steal his socks for "an important experiment."

No one to pump adrenaline and adventure into his dull life. No one to order him take away by surprise after a bad day. No one to warn him about women that would only break his heart. No one to challenge him. No one to protect.

To be his flatmate.

To be his friend

"Hey, mate, you got a lighter?"

John glanced up at the slender stranger.

"Uh, no, sorry," John ducked his head and tried to pass the man.

"Got any money then?" The man placed a hand on John's arm to stop him.

John went stiff at that. He didn't particularly fancy where this conversation was heading. He knew that tone. That gesture.

Before he could even think about it, his military training was reacting for him. His body spun around, out of the stranger's grip, to face the three hoodlums that had been hiding and now sneaking up behind him. They paused, startled at his sudden change and somehow knowledge of their presence. John didn't give them time to comprehend. With movement that spoke of practice and precision, John took down the shortest and stockiest of the young men. The victim was still falling when John regrouped and set his sights on his next opponent. A redheaded ruffian with some fair fighting skills by the looks of his stance. John seized the wrist of the outstretched fist closest to him, blocked the other hand's incoming punch while simultaneously shoving his elbow into the stranger's neck, and swooped his leg underneath his opponent's, taking the man to the ground. When one of the men reached for John's neck, the former soldier grappled the hoodlum's arms and had him on his back.

He was still on top of his prey when he felt it.

The sharp pressure. The pain. The warm liquid trickling down the back of his head and onto his neck.

Suddenly, the sensation of blood against his skin wasn't ' _Good'_ at all.  _  
_

No, this was very much _Not Good._


	13. Drowning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TITLE: Wednesday
> 
> CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Thirteen: Drowning
> 
> RATING: T (language, content)
> 
> A/N: short chapter, i know. and the ending is repeated lines from previous chapters, i know. (there are a few added ones if you pay attention). it will all make sense. and to think, this story originally was going to have NOTHING to do with John's nightmares!
> 
> Please read and review, many thanks.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.

_He was still on top of his prey when he felt it._

_The sharp pressure. The pain. The warm liquid trickling down the back of his head and onto his neck._

_Suddenly, the sensation of blood against his skin wasn't 'Good' at all.  
_

_No, this was very much Not Good._

The military man blinked past the stars and staggered to stand. The fourth member of the little band of criminals was brandishing both a blade and a brick. He didn't need to be a genius to know which one had been knocked over his skull. He was at least thankful it hadn't been the knife.

The attacker made another attempt to charge John with the brick, but the doctor blocked the blow. He was too slow, though, as the man's other arm came around. He felt the blade tear through the fabric of his coat, slicing the skin of his bicep.

The stars dancing in front of his vision were transforming into spots. The medical side of his brain that was barely clinging to coherent thought told him that he had mere minutes of consciousness left.

Ducking a jab, John swayed dizzily. They were surrounding him now, backing him hungrily into a corner like a pack of wild dogs.

He really wished he had brought his gun.

They seemed to just circle him for a few lingering moments before one finally made a move forward. John's fist came up readily to greet his assailant's face and the young man went reeling backward. A second stranger lunged for him, but John caught the criminal by the arm and shoved him against the side of a building. He had hardly let him go when the remaining two cowards crashed their bodies into him, tackling him to the ground. His already screaming head slammed against the pavement, sending an eruption of colors and agony coursing through his brain.

There was nothing but fists and shoes and blood for what seemed like an eternity.

Until there was something much more painful.

The brick landed against his shoulder, connecting horrifically with the soldier's war wound. John released an almost inhuman howl and the absolute agony flooded every bit of his being.

That wasn't the only thing drowning him though.

Memories pulled him under as he felt his body and mind sinking as one.

_He didn't hear the insurgent behind him._

_Not until the shot was fired._

_And just like that fire and pain and white warmth were burning inside his shoulder. Through-and-through. Several centimeters above the heart. Lucky. Missed the collarbone. Ball-and-socket joint still in tact. Good. Definite nerve damage. Most likely cause of death. Blood loss._

_The thoughts hardly had time to process though as John whirled around and fired at his attacker._

_Another gut, instinctual reaction._

_And then the scream._

_Because, no, it wasn't like the movies. Yes, it did hurt so much more worse than he could have possibly ever imagined._

_He had seen so many bullet wounds in his career he couldn't count them all if he tried. And yet none of them prepared him for this._

_John tried to stand and saw nothing but stars for a solid six seconds. When the constellations cleared, John found himself somehow now facing the opposite direction, and face down in the dirt._

_He looked up just in time to see another one of his comrades fall, a bullet breaking through the man's skull._

_He was on his back - again._

_But this time, there was someone above him. Someone, somehow, familiar._

_"John! John, listen to me. Listen to my voice."_

_Voice._

_That voice._

_"You are a soldier, John. Now act like it. Pull yourself together."_

_"John, can you hear me?"_

_"John?"_

_"You're going to be alright."_

_Now John was running. Ducking and sprinting and trying to breathe normally. Well, semi-normally. Well, breathe, period._

_Dogs and soldiers' cries and bombs and Moriarty's laugh all swam about the room. Sirens and bullets and children crying as their father's body was lowered into the ground._

_He had to call Sherlock._

_Sherlock would save him. He always saved him._

_But before his fingers could stop trembling long enough to punch any numbers, all sounds outside the cage suddenly ceased. It was as if someone had simply thrown a switch._

_Something else was now hanging in the air._

_Slow, melodic, familiar._

_Violin._

_Sherlock._

_He didn't know why his flatmate was there or playing, but he also didn't care. All that mattered was that his friend was there, somewhere, with him._

_He had to reach the music._

_He had to reach Sherlock._

_"You?"_

_"Don't act so surprised, John. Even you aren't that stupid to not figure it out."_

_"Figure out what?"_

_"You're nothing more than an experiment, John. A guinea pig, really."_

_"I don't have friends."_

_"Simple science."_

_And then John was falling. The bullet pushed and propelled his body backward and John Watson plummeted into a black abyss._


	14. Careless Whisper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TITLE: Wednesday
> 
> CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Fourteen: Careless Whisper
> 
> RATING: T (language, content)
> 
> A/N: This chapter is titled after TXJ's review on fanfiction.net that the story made her think of the song. So then I had to add some of the lyrics to the chapter and incorporate it into the chapter too.
> 
> Please read and review, many thanks.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.

_I'm never gonna dance again_   
_Guilty feet have got no rhythm_   
_Though it's easy to pretend_   
_I know you're not a fool_

_I should have known better than to cheat a friend_   
_And waste a chance that I'd been given_   
_So I'm never gonna dance again_   
_The way I danced with you_

_Time can never mend_   
_The careless whispers of a good friend_   
_To the heart and mind ignorance is kind_   
_There's no comfort in the truth, pain is that all you'll find_

_\- "Careless Whisper" by George Michael_

Sherlock wanted to follow John.

He had done just that so often in the past that the detective nearly pulled on his coat out of habit before stopping himself.

He had finally pulled himself off the floor and had gone straight for his Belstaff before pausing.

Would John want to be followed? Well, no one rarely really wanted to be followed.

How would he react to seeing his flatmate? Sherlock didn't necessarily fancy another fist to the face, but couldn't deny he deserved it.

He wanted to, no, needed to, apologize. It was hard word for Sherlock Holmes to choke out, even in thought form.

But even the self-proclaimed sociopath knew by the look in John's eyes, by the damage he had inflicted, that this time, he had gone too far.

He had to tell John.

Had to make sure it wasn't too late.

It had only been a few minutes since the man had abandon the flat. Sherlock knew he would not be difficult to track. People were usually fairly predictable, especially someone who he knew so well.

He didn't allow himself time for any further hesitation or thinking on the matter as he seized his jacket and charged out of 221B.

John always started off in the same direction down Baker Street when he went on one of his "walks". Sherlock didn't quite know why he did it, but every time John left like that, he had surreptitiously watched his flatmate leave from the window. Maybe it was his controlling and need-to-know nature. Maybe it was something else.

He never cared enough to consider it.

He cared now.

Following the most likely path, Sherlock set off down the street with an air and speed of purpose.

He had already fired off a series of texts before he had crossed the road.

He was rather certain he could find his friend on his own, thank you very much. But time was of the essence here. Every second was a second John drifted farther away from him. And he didn't just mean that in a sense of physical distance.

What if Sherlock didn't catch him?

What if John circled back and returned to the flat while the detective was out searching?

What if Sherlock came back to an empty second bedroom?

He wouldn't risk it.

His homeless network wouldn't ask questions. They were far more skillful and keenly observant than most people would assume. Most knew the good doctor very well by now. They would recognize him in a heartbeat and send Sherlock the location of his friend without trouble.

There was something else that was giving him haste.

Something in his gut.

Telling him, no, screaming at him, that something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

He didn't know exactly  _how_ , but he knew.

John Watson was in danger.

He wasn't a man to put  _any_ amount of stock into anything in relation to  _sentiment._

He was a being of science. Of logic and observations and facts.

And yet the  _observation_  remained that  _something_ was twisting in stomach, urging him forward faster.  _Science_ did offer evidence relating the unconscious mind to making these gut decisions. It was a fact that he had a vast array of life experiences involving dangerous situations and an advanced intelligence, suggesting that he would have a heightened intuition. Therefore,  _logic_ would dictate that, in this instance, following his gut was actually the intelligent and correct solution.

Multiple messages buzzed almost simultaneously.

His blogger had at first been spotter precisely where the detective had suspected.

And then John had done something, unexpected.

He disappeared.

Pulling up the map of the city in his head, Sherlock could envision his network checkpoints. He had eyes on John for several streets. And then nothing. After that, his contacts saw no sign of the doctor. The others quickly confirmed, the man had not turned around and altered his course.

Sherlock berated himself not to panic. It was a simple deduction.

_Points of interest in dead zone. Coffee shop - Closed. Café – Closed. Pub - Open._

It was obvious. It had to be. John had diverted into the pub. Nothing more. It wasn't uncommon for the man to seek out a bit of solace from the sleuth in a pint. Sometimes he even met up with Lestrade at one.

And yet –

Sherlock shook his head. He was being far too foolish about all of this.

The guilt. The fear. It was all what he had thought at one point was beneath him.

Before John, he had very rarely felt remorse over absolutely anything he had done or said. And that had solely been in regard to his mother.

He wasn't quite sure if he liked that another human could provoke such sentiment from behind his self-proclaimed sociopathic sham of a shell.

His brain and heart were still battling when he rounded the corner and drew closer to his destination. He was pulling open the doors of the establishment when his ears perked.

He had spent years not only observing his surroundings, but also in the throes of violent situations. He not only saw what others didn't, but heard them too. And not only did he hear them, he recognized them.

It was faint. But he knew.

A mugging.

A scrap, and a decent one by the sounds of it.

Whoever the three – no four – individuals were targeting was putting up an honorable defense. Four against one still weren't very fair odds. Even a skilled fighter could be outmuscled or taken down with cowardly tactics.

Sherlock paused. His lust for adventure and adrenaline sang to him like a siren. He cared little for the victim. Besides his general lack of interest in ordinary strangers, the act wasn't uncommon in the city. You couldn't shed a tear for every junkie or robbery victim or homeless child.

It was in that hesitation that he heard it.

A grunt. And then a groan. That was it.

But it was enough.

He recognized that voice anywhere. And hearing it coated in pain made that previous punching in his gut feel like a pathetic pinch.

Sherlock sprinted off in the direction of the noise, now allowing sentiment to flood him. He still blocked out the panic. But even Sherlock Holmes recognized that certain emotions could be quite, beneficial. Rage, for example, did wonders for human speed and strength. He was flying toward the alley now, feet moving with conscious effort, fists already curling at his sides, brain playing out every possible scenario of what he might find while simultaneously scanning for corresponding responses and attack tactics.

He didn't even blink in reaction to the scene in front of him when he did come to the mouth of the alleyway. His mind and heart were of course reeling in response, but he was processing it all so fast for any of it to show in his features of physicality.

Before he had even made the full turn into the alley, he had already narrowed down and selected the optimal option from his previous list.

In the time it took to steal a breath, his keen eyes had taken in every detail before him. John, his flatmate, his friend, was crumpled on the ground. The man was already unconscious and yet the criminals persisted to punch and kick their downed prey. The hoodlums were themselves quite riddled with their own battle wounds.

_Good old John._

_John._

_Unconscious. Blow to head and previously injured shoulder. Lacerations. No fatal injuries visible._

_Attackers. Four._

_First. Skilled Fighter. Boxing. Minimal martial arts. Has blade, but hasn't pulled it out. Overconfidence. Broken wrist. Favoring right leg. Possible sprained ankle._

_Second. Short. Slow. Easily taken down. Will run. Dislocated shoulder. Split lip._

_Third. Average. No threat. Has John's wallet. Coat pocket. Easily retrieved. Broken nose._

_Fourth. Coward. Holding knife and brick. Evidence of knife on John's left shoulder. Brick cause of unconsciousness. Target._

And without warning, he pounced.

As predicted, the short man's head snapped up at the sound of incoming footfalls and took off in the opposite direction without his friends. The one with John's wallet attempted to do the same, but he was closest to Sherlock and was swiftly seized by the collar. Sherlock spun the man's jacket around and then swooped it over his head, blinding him before kicking him to the ground. With a smug smirk, Sherlock pocketed his friend's wallet he had already stolen back in the short scuffle.

Attackers Number One and Four abandon their earlier prey and predatorily stalked to meet their new expected game. The faced their adversary with the adrenaline from the previous victory still burning in their arrogant eyes.

Their gazes were far from arrogant less than five minutes later when Attacker One was dragging his now broken ankle behind him as he ran away while Attacker Four laid limply, and quite sufficiently, and satisfactorily, unconsciously at Sherlock's feet. Sherlock dropped the stained brick and knife next to the bleeding and broken stranger's side.

He didn't spare the attackers another second of thought as he hurried to his friend's still motionless form.

"John?"

Gingerly, Sherlock slapped the man's cheeks. That was when the detective noticed that his blogger wasn't entirely motionless after all. The unconscious man's brow furrowed, his jaw tightened. The soldier's fists were clenching and unclenching.

John wasn't just knocked unconscious. He was somehow dreaming or experiencing a flashback brought on by the trauma and posttraumatic stress disorder. Sherlock wasn't sure. The man had already been showing such obvious signs and symptoms of an episode while in the flat and complete idiot could've seen them. That, combined with the attack, couldn't indicate anything good. Sherlock could also now even more clearly view the damage that had been done to the doctor's already wounded shoulder. The image made his head snap up to the still stiff Attacker Number Four and flood him with the urge to push the scum over the edge from unconscious and into a much deeper, permanent slumber.

"John, listen to me. Listen to my voice," Sherlock repeated the words he had spoken to his friend those days earlier.

John swallowed hard. A slight wince decorated the corners of his closed lids. It seemed every ounce of movement this nightmare or flashback or whatever it was caused, triggered pain of some sort. It was no surprise, Sherlock surmised as he once again, now up close, took stock of his friend's injuries. There didn't seem to be an inch of skin left without blemish or bruise. His shoulder was already swelling, but no skin or bones had been broken. The back of John's head was bleeding, but no worryingly so. The cut on his arm was also superficial and there were other trivially bleeding cuts covering his face and hands.

Inspecting the doctor with more than his eyes now, Sherlock could feel two broken ribs. The product of wounded pride. They would have left him alone after obtaining his wallet had the former military man not put up such a decent and damaging fight. Sherlock couldn't help but internally curse and compliment his friend.

Again, he attempted to rouse the man.

"John, can you hear me? John? You're going to be alright."

_I'm going to take care of you. I'm going to protect you. I'm going to do everything I can to make sure that you are never hurt like this ever again. By anyone. Including me._

Leaning over his friend, Sherlock let out a whisper.

 _"_ I'm sorry."


	15. Falling Inside the Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TITLE: Wednesday
> 
> CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Fifteen: Falling Inside the Black
> 
> RATING: T (language, content)
> 
> A/N: Finally, we see the rest of John's dream! Basically, if you're confused - he is dreaming what he dreamt that Wednesday, again now, after the mugging. So it's the same dream, but a little different. Sherlock's words are what he said to John in the end of chapter 2.
> 
> Please read and review, many thanks.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.

_Tonight I'm so alone_   
_This sorrow takes a hold_   
_Don't leave me here so cold_   
_Never want to be so cold_

_Your touch used to be so kind_   
_Your touch used to give me life_   
_I've waited all this time_   
_I've wasted so much time_

_Don't leave me alone_   
_'Cause I barely see at all_   
_Don't leave me alone_

_I'm falling in the black_   
_Slipping through the cracks_   
_Falling to the depths can I ever go back_   
_Dreaming of the way it used to be_   
_Can you hear me_

_Falling in the black_   
_Slipping through the cracks_   
_Falling to the depths can I ever go back_   
_Falling inside the black_   
_Falling inside, falling inside the black_

_You were my source of strength_   
_I've traded everything_   
_That I love for this one thing_   
_Stranded in the offering_

_Don't leave me here like this_   
_Can't hear me scream from the abyss_   
_And now I wish for you my desire_   
_Don't leave me alone 'cause I barely see at all_   
_Don't leave me alone_

_\- "Falling Inside the Black" by Skillet_

And then John was falling. The bullet pushed and propelled his body backward and John Watson plummeted into a black abyss.

_John Watson was falling._

_And flying._

_And drowning._

_All at the same time._

_A terrible and terrifying weightless sensation._

_Sinking into the darkness._

_The black._

_Flashes of color._

_Of hounds._

_Of Moriarty._

_Of snipers and pools and bombs and screams._

_Of fog and fear._

_Of deserts and gunshots and explosions and death._

_Of experiments and labs._

_Of Sherlock._

_And then black again._

_Never stabilizing._

_Never stopping._

_Chaining him inside this horrific merry-go-round of nightmares and abyss._

_He just needed to find something._

_Anything._

_He could cling to._

_He reached out his hands, or at least, he hoped so. He couldn't see. Couldn't feel._

_He desperately searched for purchase in this shadowy sea._

_Because that's what the colors, what the nightmares, were._

_Only shadows._

_Memories._

_Echoes of the past._

_Nothing solid he could hold onto._

_Nothing that he would want to cling to._

_Except Sherlock._

_Sherlock was his friend. He would save him._

_"You're nothing more than an experiment, John. A guinea pig, really."_

_"I don't have friends."_

_"Simple science."_

_No. Sherlock wasn't really his friend. John had merely been foolish enough to believe it to be true._

_An idiot._

_He guessed that that, at least, wasn't something Sherlock had lied to him about._

_John was truly an idiot._

_Sherlock didn't care about it._

_No one did._

_His parents were gone. Harry had disappeared inside a bottle long ago. His previous best friend was dead and his current best friend thought of him as nothing more than an experiment._

_He was alone in the darkness._

_With nowhere to swim to, nothing to cling to, he simply let himself sink._

_Maybe it would be better this way._

_To disappear into the dark. The pain. The fear._

_At least, on some level, he knew this hurt and terror weren't real._

_He would rather relive getting shot 100 times over than have to watch Sherlock laugh in his pathetic face and tell him just how foolish he had been._

_"John?"_

_Another flash. Another echo._

_But John didn't remember this one clearly. He knew it was memory, but from where, he did not know._

_There was no image with this shadow._

_Only the voice._

_Sherlock's voice._

_It wasn't menacing or demeaning like the dream version of his friend had been back in the labs. It wasn't cold like the real version of his friend sitting in his chair, telling him about "simple science"._

_This Sherlock sounded – scared? Hesitant? Anxious? Hopeful? Kind?_

_"John. I know you can hear me. You can always hear me. Even when you pretend to be asleep but I want your help with an experiment. Which, by the way, is quite childish and rude."_

_It was definitely Sherlock. No one else to imitate that tone._

_"But, seeing as this time you are most definitely not feigning sleep – which, partially, maybe, might be somewhat my fault – I will refrain from using cold water as I have in the past."_

_Was Sherlock – upset? Sad?_

_And that definitely couldn't have been – remorse? – John heard in the baritone voice._

_"I am going to try something, John. Purely scientific. I do not want you confusing this with sentiment. Anyone who reads your blog knows you do so like to romanticize things. I simply ask that you do not punch me."_

_Too late for that, John thought._

_But wait._

_This memory was before John punched Sherlock._

_"You are safe, John. You are with me and you are safe. No one is trying to hurt you. I am not trying to hurt you. I – I am here."_

_And with those last words, John felt someone reaching out to him in that black abyss._

_No. Not just someone._

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock was reaching for him._

_No tricks. No games. No lies._

_Sherlock was holding onto him._

_John didn't need to search out Sherlock to find purchase, Sherlock was already clinging to him, pulling him out of the dark._

_John did all he could manage to do._

_All his brain and heart would allow him to._

_He squeezed back._

_The doctor gripped the invisible hand like the lifeline that it was and felt the unseen force tighten its hold on him._

_"It's me, John. You're safe. It's me."_


	16. Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TITLE: Wednesday
> 
> CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Sixteen: Good
> 
> RATING: T (language, content)
> 
> A/N: I really wanted to make sure this story was ready to be finished. I think it is. Sorry if you don't! Any longer, and it would start to drag. So, here it is! The conclusion to all the craziness. I kept almost posting this, and then coming back and tweaking the ending. Okay. I think I'm done. Enjoy!
> 
> Please read and review, many thanks.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.

John wasn't sure what exactly he expected upon waking, but it certainly wasn't his flatmate holding his hand.

Or said flatmade reading aloud from some science article that John hardly understood a word of.

Or violin music.

Vaguely, the doctor wondered if he was dreaming.

And then he remembered, he  _had_ been dreaming.

The experiment, the argument, the mugging, the nightmares, all came washing over his mind in a wave.

He groaned and alerted the other occupant of the room to his new wakeful state. Instantly, the hand holding his withdrew and the scientific ramblings disappeared. Several seconds later, the music even ceased.

For a moment, John desired to simply stay hidden behind his closed eyelids. He could feel Sherlock's presence hovering over him and faintly recognized that he was laying on their couch.

And that he wasn't in any pain.

 _Odd_.

He distinctly remembered fists and shoes and bricks and blades.

A noise that sounded similar to Sherlock clearing his throat met John's hears and the blogger finally forced his eyes open to meet the detective's.

There was something unreadable in that normally apathetic or shielded gaze. The self-proclaimed sociopath seemed to be attempting to shove whatever emotions were threatening to bleed through his features back behind his wall, but it wasn't entirely working.

"You're awake," was all he said.

John noted that whatever was reflected in his eyes, also echoed in his voice. He wondered if that was all the great detective could bring himself to say without revealing what he was so desperately trying to hide. That merely one single word more could break the facade.

There was a gaping pause, so tangible John was sure that if he reached out, he could touch it.

_Odd. Again._

_No pain. Odd thought patterns._

And then there was that underlying urge to giggle at absolutely nothing.

_Oh. Right. Damn._

"So, did you just happen to have pain medication lying around that I didn't know about and drug me again, or have I been to hospital and just don't remember?"

He knew his head had been hit. But not how hard. Anything was possible at this point. Despite his slight haze, he still didn't miss Sherlock's microscopic wince at the words "drug me again".

"Given my distinct distaste for hospitals and their usual incompetence, in addition to the fact that although you yourself are a doctor, you too loathe them, as a patient, that is, I decided I would bring you here instead."

"So you did drug me?" John repeated, again noting the twitch.

"No."

 _Not this time, at least._ Sherlock berated himself.  _This time you only allowed your best friend to get beaten nearly to death._

"I brought you back and called in - a favor."

"A favor?" John's muddled mind turned this over for only a second. "You called your brother.  _You_ called  _Mycroft_? You never call him, for anything."

"You are not just anything," Sherlock slipped and then straightened his features.

_For you, John. I called him for you. I would owe him a thousand favors for you._

"One of Mycroft's doctors, then," John nodded, "great. I probably got injected with a microchip too."

"Nonsense, John," Sherlock shook his head. "The only tracking device Mycroft has ever tried to employ with you has been the one he had put in your phone and the one had had sewn into the soles of your shoes. Both of which I removed."

"And then probably replaced them with your own," John rolled his eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock sniffed, "I rely on my own brain, not some computer's. That's how I found -" Sherlock cut himself off abruptly, his eyes flicking from John to the floor.

"How you found what?" John prompted.

Another thick pause.

"You."

Again.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but it was a moment before he spoke.

"I - followed you, John. After you left, I went after you, but you were already gone. I deduced the route you were most likely to take and then got in contact with members of my homeless network to pinpoint your exact location. I - found you. You were being - attacked. You were unconscious."

"Bloody cowards," John mumbled.

"Quite right," Sherlock smirked. "Only two tried to fight. I handled them."

"Let me guess," John chuckled, "now they're the ones in hospital."

"I would think so," Sherlock smiled, "if they had enough intelligence to go to one. Which, is fairly possible that they don't. Besides, they were well on their way to hospital before I came along. I don't think they expected they had a soldier on their hands when they targeted you."

"Fat lot good that did me," John grunted and attempted to sit up.

Despite the drugs, the movement still caused pain to pulse through this body. He gasped and grimaced before finally getting comfortable, surprisingly with Sherlock's help.

Sherlock was pleasantly caught off guard at how John neglected to pull away from him or scold him for his helpful efforts. He expected the doctor to detest him after what he had done. And yet they were conversing like nothing had transpired. Even the emotionally oblivious detective could sense the subject hanging just above their light banter, waiting to drop.

"John - I - there is something else you should know about me following you. There was - a reason - I did so. It was - I mean to say - I wanted to - apologize." Sherlock had been sputtering his way through his words when suddenly he was speaking with swift speed. "I know that you said  _not_ to apologize. I know you said that it wouldn't mean anything. I realize that. But, I - wanted - needed to say it. I needed you to hear it, John. I'm sorry."

And as much as John wanted to put another fist in his friend's face for what he had done, it was just that. He was his friend. Even after everything, John considered Sherlock his friend. The problem had been him believing Sherlock didn't think the same of him.

But John thought of the voice from his dreams. The music. The hand holding his.

And he knew differently.

That didn't mean they lived happily ever after and 221B was a peaceful paradise from that day forth. Nor did it mean that Sherlock never again used John for an experiment - willingly, unwillingly, knowingly, or unknowingly. But never drugs. Sherlock never drugged the doctor again after that. Things were rough for awhile, but eventually, as did most things on Baker Street, the entire ordeal turned into a joke. A way to laugh at their past pain instead of acknowledge or indulge in it. John even employed it once or twice to guilt his flatmate into running the errands.

Their friendship was rocky, but like that rock, solid and strong.

Life with Sherlock Holmes was never easy, or dull. But John, well, John was quite alright with that as long as he didn't miss anymore days.

And, as it turned out, something good actually came from the experience.

Since the "experiment", John had less nightmares. And when he did suffer them, Sherlock now knew the proper remedy. He would often time it so that he "just to happen" to being playing violin while John was upstairs drifting to sleep.

Both of them knew.

Neither of them let on.

John often thought the defining moment had come, several hours after he had woken, after a long and comfortable silence, Sherlock had suddenly spoke.

"So, um, are we, good?"

And there it was.

The detective had grown to turn to John as his moral compass. Asking him if what he  _did_ was socially or morally "good" or "not good".

This wasn't about something Sherlock  _did._ This was about their friendship. This was Sherlock Holmes not only caring about another human being, but caring enough to check if their relationship was still okay. Caring about a person. Caring about a relationship. Sentiment.  _  
_

"Yeah, Sherlock," John had sighed. "We're good."

So, what Sherlock had done, as John so regularly reminded him, was definitely, "not good".

But what had come from it. What they had learned about each other and their friendship. The bond that was strengthened through the trials. What Sherlock did uncharacteristically and unselfishly to help his friend.

Well, John deemed, that was definitely, good.

And so were they.


End file.
